Bells
by aliceforgryffindor
Summary: Panic sweeps Gotham as the Joker starts a city-wide scourge of morality. Isabelle gets caught in the middle, and the Joker finds a new plaything. So begins Isabelle's descent into madness. J/OC, Nolanverse rated M for violence, language, scenes of a sexual nature. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**Hey there! Here's my take on the Nolanverse Joker, during the events of the Dark Knight. Let me tell you now, this is **_**not **_**going to be light and fluffy. I'm well aware that the Joker is not a sane guy, and to be honest I can't stand reading fanfics about how the Joker gets reformed by falling in love or something like that. I know some people like that, but not me. Each to his own, right?**

**Anyway, happy reading!**

**xo Alice**

**Disclaimer: All original characters that can be recognised from the Dark Knight Trilogy franchise or Batman/Joker comic books, are not owned by me. Anything you don't recognise is my own creation. This will stand for each chapter.**

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**A/N [10/10/15]: Have just redone this chapter, hopefully it reads a little better now.**

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1

Isabelle picked her way through the busy street, dodging a harried man in a crumpled pinstriped suit, clutching a steaming thermos of coffee as if his life depended on it. She spared him a backwards glance, wondering what had happened to him that had given him the desolate look in his eyes. She supposed that was Gotham for you. It wasn't a city you headed to for a nice, relaxing holiday. It was a city that you visited only if it couldn't be avoided, and even then you did it with your mace in your handbag and a face-paced step. You would never want to live there unless you got an adrenalin rush from news anchors calmly reading the daily death tally, or when you heard shots in the street outside your firmly locked window. It certainly wasn't the place for a young woman to be living alone.

Isabelle, of course, lived alone. She wasn't stupid, though. The first thing she did when she moved into her new, admittedly dingy, apartment was to install two extra locks on all of her doors and windows. She even boarded up the tiny bathroom window, even though the only feasible way someone could enter her apartment through that window would be if they were a midget. With the multitude of crazies in Gotham, Isabelle supposed that there could be at least one midget, and she just wasn't willing to take the chance.

It was a day like any other day. Isabelle had gotten out of bed, stubbed her toe on the bedside table, cursed loudly and profusely, and then made herself a steaming hot mug of coffee in the small, tiled kitchenette. According to schedule, Isabelle looked at the time and realised she was late, and that she had to leave ten minutes ago if she wanted to get the bank and then on to work on time. Forgoing a shower, she blindly threw her hand into the small closest and pulled out a plaid skirt and mismatching pale pink blouse. Pulling up the skirt with one hand while haphazardly applying mascara with the other, Isabelle kept up a continuous stream of annoyed muttering. She paused and looked at her hair in the mirror. Deciding there was no hope, she threw it into a quick ponytail, and grabbed the blouse as she flew into the living room, almost tripping over the fringed carpet.

'Fucking shit,' Isabelle muttered, pulling the blouse over her head whilst searching for her handbag and the shoes she had thrown somewhere last night. Finding one heel hidden behind the couch and the other somehow wedged between the fridge and the adjacent wall, she pulled them on and flew out of the apartment.

She was headed for Gotham's biggest bank. It was common knowledge that the bank where she planned to get a new credit card was owned by the mob, but Isabelle was out of time and out of ideas. When the next closest bank was in an entirely different area of town and your car has wheezed it's last wheeze, well, what's a girl to do? Sometimes it's the mob or no dice.

After dodging several more business types (one of whom had the gall to flip her the finger after she brushed past him) Isabelle finally reached Gotham National Bank, breathing embarrassingly heavily for a person whose apartment was only four blocks away. Tucking her blouse into the skirt and adjusting her handbag, Isabelle heaved open the glass doors. She had forgotten how goddamn _heavy_ they were. Inside the bank it was quiet and still. The other customers didn't speak to each other, communicating in hushed tones only with the tellers before they were back onto the Gotham streets.

Isabelle picked the nicest looking teller and made her way over. After explaining what she wanted in a hushed voice – the blonde scrunched her nose up, as if it was Isabelle's fault her credit card had been stolen during an inadvisable trip to the Narrows – Isabelle gladly made her way to the double doors, intent on a second coffee and a newspaper from the cute little café across the street. She had barely made it three steps before her average day turned into the worst day of her life. There were screams as shots echoed around the expansive rooms, bouncing off the marble in a chaotic cacophony.

Isabelle spun around, searching for the source of the noise. She slowly crept to the door, and sheltered behind the alcove. She tentatively peered around the wall. What she saw made her heart stop. Two men, one tall, one short, each carrying a gun. It wasn't the guns, however, that made her palms sweat. It was the _masks_. Crime wasn't new to Gotham. In fact, crime was very common, and almost expected. It would be a strange day when the news didn't report at least one robbery, heist, or murder. But the mobs that ran the crime rings throughout the city were straightforward and predictable. They wore bespoke suits and wanted everyone to know exactly who had committed which crime, so that they might properly take the credit. They didn't wear _masks_. Especially not masks of this calibre. A clown face was painted onto each one, ugly and menacing.

_Clowns_, thought Isabelle, shrinking back into the alcove and out of sight, _Jesus Christ I fucking hate clowns._ Isabelle had never been aware of having coulrophobia, but it was a new day and she supposed anything was possible when you were confronted with the scariest goddamn clowns in the world. Especially, it seemed, clowns holding guns.

_Don't just stand there like an idiot. Get out! _Isabelle screamed internally. _The door, the door, go for the door. _

Isabelle edged backwards, keeping her eyes on the clowns, who were conveniently at that moment harassing the bank tellers, and subsequently were facing the other way. Her back touched the glass, and she frantically pushed herself backwards, trying to open them without making a sound. They didn't budge. Considering she had had trouble opening them with her entire weight on them as she entered the bank, Isabelle realised with a soundless curse that she wouldn't be able to get out without taking her eyes off the clowns. She quickly realised that she had no options, save turning around to heave the door open, somehow without the armed crazies noticing her and shooting her dead on the spot. It was a fool's hope, but sometimes a fool's hope is all you have.

Suddenly an alarm flared, blaring throughout the building and echoing off the marble walls. Isabelle heard the automatic bolt on the doors slide across with a loud _clang_.

_Dammit._

The tall clown stiffened, and turned slowly around. Isabelle couldn't see his eyes through the holes in his mask, but she knew he was staring right at her. Isabelle made a sound she had never made before in her life – somewhere between a squeak and a cough. It was a completely embarrassing noise and Isabelle resolved never to repeat it. The clown started to chuckle, punctuating each distinct _ha_, sometimes adding a _hee _or a _hoo_. The overall effect was manic and frightening, and Isabelle blinked at him before sliding to the floor as her knees gave way. Her hands, she realised, were shaking. She had never been more terrified.

The clown made his way over, his shoulders hunched and his head protruding like some sort of demented turtle. Isabelle whimpered as he crouched down in front of her.

'You know,' he said quietly, 'I'm a little, uh, _offended_, that you wanted to skip out on the party.'

Isabelle drew her knees in closer to her chest, and tucked in her chin, not wanting to give this guy the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Her crying face was not something she was proud of.

'Hey, hey,' he said, a steely note entering his voice. Isabelle felt the barrel of his gun under her chin, forcing her head up to look at him. Isabelle shuddered and resolutely closed her eyes.

'Look at me,' he growled. '_Look at me!_'

She flinched, bringing her eyes up to the holes in his mask. Somehow, his eyes weren't reflecting the light, making it seem as if the holes opened out into black, bottomless pits. His mask was bone white, chipped in places, as if from long use. The cheeks were sharp and with two red spots under the cheekbones, overset by red markings around the eyes, and a nose reminiscent of Rudolph. The blue mouth was turned down in a frown. Isabelle shuddered, and looked back down at her knees. That was a mistake. Her head whipped to the side as the butt of his gun hit her hard in her temple, white lights exploding across her vision. Dazed, Isabelle felt her arms lose their grip on her knees, and her legs slid out, sitting like a marionette with its strings cut against the wall. Her head lolled forward, and she blinked, trying to clear her vision as her head swam. The clown chuckled again.

'Lucky I got my boys to lock up the, uh, building. It would have been a shame for you to miss the big _finale_.'

With that he whipped around with surprising speed as a bus crashed through the far wall, knocking down his comrade holding duffel bags of cash.

Isabelle blinked, sure she was seeing things. _A bus?_

The clown sauntered over, picked up the bags, and made his way to the bus. Isabelle recoiled when she heard him fire a shot at the driver, who slumped over the wheel. Another shot was fired, and the bank manager, who had been creeping around a desk holding a rifle, clutched his stomach with a guttural moan, blood staining his fingers and white shirt. Isabelle blanched at the copper scent of his blood as it permeated the air. The clown gave a small sound of victory, and vaulted into the bus.

Isabelle slumped back against the wall and sighed softly in relief. Bad move. Somehow, _impossibly_, the clown heard her. He cocked his head, and stepped back down off the bus.

He took off his mask.

Isabelle's eyes widened as she took in his appearance. His hair touched his shoulders, greasy and – _green?_ But it was his face that made her hands tremble and her mouth twitch. White grease paint was smeared over his face, sinking into the scars and lines. His eyes were smudged with black, like permanent bruises. And a terrifying Glasgow smile stretched across his face, puckered and ugly, highlighted messily with a deep red. He grinned, his teeth yellow and glinting, but his scars contorted it into something sinister and wrong. It was a face that had been plastered across the news for the past few weeks. No serious crimes, though, just petty thefts here and there. And here he was, robbing a bank.

Isabelle shrunk against the wall as the man made his jittery way over to her, his fingers playing over the gun strapped around his waist.

_Nononononononononononononono._

Deaf to Isabelle's soundless pleas, he once again crouched into front of her, his leather-gloved hand reaching out to touch her face. Isabelle reacted faster than she thought possible. She vaulted away from him, scrambling to her feet.

She had reacted fast, but he reacted faster. His hand snagged her ankle, and she went down hard, slamming her forehead into the marble floor. Pain shot through Isabelle's head, adding to the dull throbbing that was the result of her pistol-whipping. She groaned, the lights dancing in front of her eyes. She felt the man straddle her back, his gloved fingers trailing down her neck.

She felt his breath in her ear.

'I'm the Joker,' he said softly, 'and I _like_ you.'

He grasped her ponytail softly, pulling her head back. Then he slammed her head into the marble tiles.

* * *

Isabelle groaned as she came to, and opened her eyes. Confused, she closed them. And opened them again. No difference. The darkness was absolute. Isabelle became aware of the heavy throbbing in her head, and for the first time realised that she was tied down.

_Oh my god_, she thought frantically, struggling against her bonds. She was gagged, the coarse rope cutting into her mouth, and tied spread-eagled, her wrists and ankles bound to each separate corner of the… table?

_Oh my god_, Isabelle thought again. _He's going to rape me. He's going to rape me and kill me. _

Isabelle began to hyperventilate through the gag, her eyes wide and unseeing in the blackness. Suddenly, a bulb clicked on directly above her, blinding her in its light. Her eyes began to water, blinding her anew, and she struggled more frantically. Isabelle heard a light chuckle and snapped her head to the side, trying to find the source of the noise. The Joker was standing at the door, as hunched as ever. His makeup was freshly applied, with a precision that spoke of years of practice.

Isabelle's breathing was completely erratic. She was tied up – completely immobile. This guy was obviously a psychopath. A maniac. Probably a rapist.

The Joker approached her carefully, as if she were a skittish animal that he didn't want to bolt. Isabelle wished she could bolt, but she was fucking _tied up_. He had crossed out of her vision, approaching her from behind her head. Isabelle strained, trying to see him. She couldn't hear him.

The silence was punctuated only by Isabelle's panicked breathing.

'Hmmm.'

Isabelle quieted, holding her breath.

'Are you, uh, having a _good_ time?'

Isabelle glared at the ceiling, mumbling through the gag.

'I didn't quite _catch _that.'

Isabelle mumbled more loudly, the coarseness of the rope cutting her lips.

'You know, _Isabelle_, when I ask a question, I, uh, expect it to be _answered_,' he giggled, knowing full well that she couldn't speak.

_How the fuck does he know my name?!_

Finally she could hear movement, and the Joker crossed to the end of the table. He looked her slowly up and down, a smirk crossing his face. Isabelle _really _wished she hadn't worn a skirt that day. She had never felt so exposed in her entire life. The urge to cross her legs was unbelievably strong, and she pulled against the ropes. The Joker braced his hands on the table, as if testing how much it held, and then quickly vaulted up, standing with a foot on either side of her torso. For a while he stood there, staring down at her, idly flicking a small knife back and forth in his fingers. Isabelle looked up him, her eyes wide and neck straining. From this angle he was even more terrifying. She could appreciate how tall he actually was – somewhere over six feet, but the way he hunched made it impossible to tell.

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, straddling her stomach. He grinned. It was horrifying. The little knife appeared in his fingers, and the Joker held it above her eyes, excited and playful, like a child showing his parent a toy. The knife dipped, and Isabelle tried to follow it with her eyes, but gave up when it went past her nose. The Joker was the picture of concentration, and Isabelle, looking at him, realised with a jolt that he would actually be quite handsome under the makeup and evil personality.

_Don't follow that train of thought_.

'So, _Isabelle_,' he said, drawing out her name. She flinched when he said her name, and his grin widened. The Joker fished around inside his purple trench coat and pulled out Isabelle's wallet, placing it on the edge of the table.

_Ah. So that's how he knew_.

Suddenly, she felt the knife at the corner of her mouth, and Isabelle went completely still. The Joker looked down at her, sensing her train of thought.

'Isabelle, I'm not going to _cut _you,' he said, frowning at her.

Isabelle could have cried in relief.

'Well, not _yet_.'

Before Isabelle had time to process this new information, the Joker brought the knife down to her mouth and made a swift cut. The gag fell away, and Isabelle sucked in a shuddering breath.

'What do you want with me?' she asked, trembling as he trailed a hand across her shoulder.

'Hmm,' he said, 'I just don't _know _yet.'

'You don't _know_?!' Isabelle spat, 'Then why the _hell_ did you kidnap me?'

'Uh uh uh, _careful_, Isabelle,' he murmured, bring the tip of the knife to her throat like a promise. Isabelle leaned back into the table, trying to get as far away from it as she could from it and failing miserably.

'I just like to, uh, _have _things, you see,' he murmured conversationally, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with his free hand. She glared at him. Suddenly, his entire mood changed, and the hand holding her hair became insistent, tugging so hard that she felt a few strands separate from her scalp, making her cry out in anguish. The knife pressed harder, drawing a bead of blood that she could feel trickling down her neck. Isabelle whimpered. The Joker leaned over her face, so close that had he leaned forward just half an inch their foreheads would have been touching.

'You're _mine_,' he said, pulling hard at her hair, opening up her neck further to him, 'and I'm going to leave you something to, uh, _remember_ me by.'

The knife left her throat and moved instead to the left corner of her mouth. Isabelle whimpered, tears leaking out of her tightly shut eyelids as the knife moved slowly, _painfully,_ across her cheek in a curve. She was straining against the ropes, gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles white. He finally finished just an inch to the right of her ear, at the start of her cheekbone. Isabelle desperately probed her cheek with her tongue, hoping to God it hadn't gone all of the way through. It hadn't, but the cut was still painful, and her cheeks were wet with tears. The Joker looked at her, as if confused, and touched her cheek with a gloved finger.

'Are you _crying_ for little old me, Bells?' he asked, giggling.

Isabelle tried to speak, but stopped with a gasp as she felt her blood trickle into her mouth. It pooled at the back of her throat, and she choked, retching, trying to cough it up but being unable.

The Joker looked down at in her amusement. Realising she had no option, she swallowed, gagging at the metallic taste, and then pressed her mouth shut. The pain in her cheek was horrific, and she knew that she was going to scar. _Just like him_, she thought, _he's marked me now. Everyone will know._

The Joker laughed at her pained expression, and pressed his thumb hard into the cut. Isabelle screamed, a guttural sound that tore itself out her mouth, trying to wrench her face away, to protect herself, to do _something. _But she was tied up and helpless and he was just _so strong_. Darkness crept into her vision, and Isabelle slumped against the desk.

The Joker looked at her prone form, and brought his thumb from the cut. Tsking at the blood now staining his glove, he surveyed his prize.

_I'm going to have _fun _with this one_.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, please follow and review!**


	2. Chapter 2

2

It was the beeping that woke her.

Isabelle groaned; her face was one big hurt. She moved her arms up to feel her face (she was glad that she could move her arms at all, as opposed to the last time she had woken up in a new place), and found the entire left side of her face covered in bandages.

_Bandages?_ she thought, confused, _What are… fuck. _

The beeping grew more insistent, and Isabelle realised that it was a heart monitor. A face appeared in her vision, and she flinched.

'How are you feeling Isabelle?' asked a calm feminine voice.

_Not the Joker not the Joker._

'Where… where am I?' Isabelle croaked, doing her utmost to move her mouth as little as possible.

'Gotham General,' replied the nurse, and then said, checking her clipboard. 'You were transferred here after to you were found.'

Isabelle frowned at her, 'Found? Found where?'

The nurse looked uncomfortable, 'In the Narrows.'

Isabelle's eyes widened, 'The _Narrows_?'

She couldn't believe it. He'd left her in the fucking Narrows?! The Narrows was notorious for murders, mobs, petty crime and gangs. Hell, that's where her credit card had been stolen! It was not the safest place to be left unconscious for an extended period of time.

'Oh my God. Is there any… I mean, was I…' Isabelle trailed off, gesturing down below her torso.

The nurse didn't even blink, 'There are no injuries of a sexual nature.'

Isabelle relaxed back into the sheets.

'Now, Isabelle, are you feeling any pain?' the nurse asked, pen poised over the clipboard.

Isabelle thought about it.

'Just my face,' she replied, 'how bad is it?'

The nurse rattled off Isabelle's injuries, as if she was growing bored, 'There are three areas in which swelling has occurred, two on the centre of the forehead, and one to the right temple, but no fractures to the skull. The cut on your neck is shallow, and did not require stitches. The cut across your left cheek did not puncture the skin although it is quite deep. It required 29 stitches, and will scar.'

_That fucker_, Isabelle thought furiously, _he _maimed _me._

'Now, is there any family you would like to contact?' the nurse asked.

Isabelle glared at her in irritation. 'No,' she snapped, 'there is no-one.'

The nurse looked taken aback, and the pen teetered in her grip.

'In that case, I'll go and get the police,' she said hastily, and rushed out of the room, heels clacking on the linoleum floor.

_The police_? thought Isabelle, annoyed, _Don't I have enough to deal with?_

A man walked into the room.

'Good evening, Isabelle, I'm Lieutenant Gordon from the Gotham City Police Department.'

He extended a hand to her, and Isabelle shook it with annoyance.

'Look,' she said, 'I know you just have to do your job, but can't you just leave it for later? I'm in hospital.'

Gordon's face softened. He had a fatherly face, laugh lines beside his bespectacled eyes and a moustache on his top lip.

'I'm know this is hard for you, but we have to catch this man –'

'The Joker,' Isabelle interrupted. Gordon looked at her oddly.

'Yes, we have to catch the Joker before he causes any more damage. Is there anything you can tell me that will help us to find him?'

Isabelle thought.

'Not really. He knocked me unconscious in the bank, and then I woke up in a room, tied to a table. Then he did his work on my face, and dumped me in the Narrows. I suppose it's too much to hope that he left me right outside where he's holed down?'

Gordon frowned. 'Unfortunately, there was no trace that anyone had been there.'

Isabelle slumped back against the pillows. It had been a long shot.

'Now, I've spoken to your Doctor, and he has told me that you will be released tomorrow. I'll leave you to get some rest.'

With one last reassuring pat on her hand, Lieutenant Gordon left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Isabelle sighed, and settled back into the bed to try to get some sleep.

* * *

The news of Isabelle's kidnapping and mutilation had somehow reached the news, and she was continually faced with Mike Engel's smarmy face as the story was rehashed over and over again (the amount of crime within the city had unforeseeably dropped, either due to influence from the Batman or the Joker, and so the news casters had little else to report on). It certainly hadn't helped Isabelle's wish to remain out of the spotlight – she attracted a ridiculous amount of stares as she walked down the street, whether due to the bandages that still covered her face, or the fact that she was recognised by the photograph of her that had been circulated on every news station. Isabelle had taken to staying in her apartment all day, eating nothing but two minute noodles and pop-tarts, and watching the Lifetime channel. To hell with her job at the gym – someone else could man the desk at reception.

Isabelle sighed and stretched out on the couch, accidently knocking a few wrappers to the floor. She wasn't proud of the amount she had consumed over the past few days, but at the same time believed she was entitled to a few extra calories considering the week she'd had.

Isabelle probed the bandages, wondering whether they were ready to come off. She still hadn't seen the damage the Joker caused to her face, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to. The look on the doctor's face as he changed the bandages had been enough for her. Isabelle felt tears well up in her eyes, and she rubbed them away angrily with her fist. She'd had _more _than enough time to get over this! It wasn't as if she was going to die! There were so many people who were much worse off than her – it was only a little cut for God's sake. Only it wasn't only a little cut to Isabelle – she had never admitted it to herself (or to anyone else) but she was rather vain of her good looks and fine features. Now it was ruined, and that hurt far more than Isabelle cared to admit.

She pound her fist into a pillow trying to distract herself from the tears that were threatening to overflow.

_Pull yourself together._

The phone rang. Isabelle fumbled for her mobile, nestled between the couch cushions.

'Hello?' Isabelle asked cautiously, gathering up the wrappers on the floor as if the person on the end of the line could see the state of her apartment.

'Isabelle!'

'Simon?' Isabelle asked excitedly. Simon was an old friend from college, and he was the only buddy she had kept up contact with after she'd dropped out.

'Is that you I've been seeing on the news?' he asked, his voice dropping. She could practically see him running a hand through his hair and frowning as he spoke.

Isabelle sighed, 'Yeah. I'm fine though, before you ask!'

Simon chuckled, 'I wasn't going to ask. You've always been tough.'

Isabelle grinned, although he couldn't see it. He was right – she _was _tough, and she wasn't going to let a little cut stop her. She was almost embarrassed at the thought of the state she had been in just a moment ago. The scar could be covered in foundation – the miracle of makeup – and it wasn't as if the Joker had any reason to come looking for her. She had been a moment's fun, a whim, and then he had gotten bored and dumped her on the sidewalk.

'So what's up?' Isabelle asked, collapsing back down onto the couch and throwing a leg over the side.

'Well, I'm in town for a fundraiser over at the Wayne Foundation Building – you know, Bruce's crowd.'

Isabelle scoffed - of course she knew Bruce's crowd. Him and his idiotic friends were constantly splashed over the pages of magazines that she refused to lend value to by buying. The last time she'd paid any attention to Bruce Wayne was when he'd burnt down his home, the beautiful Wayne Manor, with his drunken antics.

'Jeez, Simon, why don't you just hang out with a flying rodent, you'll probably find better conversation.'

Simon laughed. 'He's really not that bad, Isabelle.' He paused. 'I actually have a huge favour to ask.'

Isabelle cocked an eyebrow. Last time he'd asked her for a favour she'd ended up stark raving drunk and half naked at a spontaneous surprise birthday party.

Simon seemed to sense her train of thought. 'Don't worry, Isabelle, you won't need to dance on any tables this time. Well, not unless you want Wayne &amp; Co. looking up your dress.'

'Are you serious?' Isabelle said flatly. 'I am not coming to a Wayne fundraiser with you. Especially not with the publicity I've had lately.'

'Please,' Simon wheedled.

'No way.'

'Aw, come on Bells.'

Instantly Isabelle tensed, the hand not holding the mobile clenching reflexively. '_Don't call me that_,' she hissed. She couldn't stand the old nickname now. The Joker had used it, defiled it, just like he had her face.

Isabelle heard Simon's startled intake of breath at her tone, and immediately felt bad. He couldn't have known, it wasn't his fault.

'Sorry,' she sighed, picking at the hem of her pyjamas, 'I just don't like that name anymore.'

Simon sounded perplexed, and a little hurt. 'Ah, ok. No more nicknames, got it.'

_Damn it all to hell. Now I've hurt his feelings. Ah, fuck, I'm gonna have to do it._

'So when is this thing? Because I'm going to need time to find a dress.'

* * *

The elevators of the Wayne Foundation Building were just as ridiculously stylish as Isabelle had expected. Her equally ridiculous heels were sinking into the plush carpet, and she could see herself reflected in the huge gilt mirror. She wasn't complaining though. She looked _good_. The dress was long and black, with a plunging neckline and a hem that breezed pleasingly around her ankles as she walked. Her dark hair was straightened and pulled back into a high tight ponytail. Isabelle wasn't entirely sold on her makeup, though. The foundation didn't quite manage to hide the puckered skin on her left cheek. The scar was longer than she thought it would be, and she hadn't quite managed to hide her shock from the doctor when he removed the bandages two days ago. The doctor looked sad, and went out of his way to make sure she wouldn't suffer any long-term mental issues as a result of spending time as the Joker's carving board. Isabelle was even offered counselling, which she refused. She didn't refuse the lollipop though.

Isabelle looked at Simon next to her. If she was being honest, she had never quite got over a small crush that started in their college days. Devastatingly handsome, he had a roguish charm that people felt drawn to. It was no doubt why he had gained access to the inner circle in Gotham, even though he lived in nearby Metropolis.

Simon offered her his arm as the elevator doors smoothly slid open, and Isabelle felt her jaw drop.

'He _lives _here?' she asked Simon hoarsely as they stepped through the threshold.

Simon chuckled, 'Ridiculous, isn't it?'

Ridiculous wasn't the word. The penthouse was huge, it's size not hidden by the numbers of people milling around talking in soft voices as they sipped from their glasses. Tasteful furniture was scattered about, as well as high, circular tables covered in delicacies and expensive champagne. Two of the four walls were floor to ceiling windows, offering a beautiful view of the Gotham skyline. Isabelle grudgingly admitted to herself that no matter how much Bruce annoyed her, he certainly had an eye for architecture.

'What's this fundraiser even for?' Isabelle hissed to Simon as she accepted a champagne flute from a waiter.

'Harvey Dent,' Simon whispered back squeezing her lightly on the elbow and steering her towards the hors d'oeuvres.

_Harvey Dent? _Isabelle raised an eyebrow.

'The annoying billboard guy?'

'Yeah, him,' Simon answered distractedly, looking around the room. 'Where the hell is Bruce? He knows I can only stand these things if he's around to lighten the mood.'

As if on cue, a helicopter _whirred _over the penthouse, touching down on the helipad. Bruce cut a suave figure as he hopped agilely from the floor of the helicopter, helping down not one, but _three _women Isabelle assumed had to be models. She rolled her eyes. Everything about Bruce screamed douchebag. She watched as he deposited the women at a table.

'Sorry I'm late,' Bruce said, smirking slightly, 'Glad you started without me. Where's Rachel?'

Isabelle almost laughed when she spotted the woman that must be Rachel – she was cringing, embarrassed by the display that Bruce was making.

Bruce continued, gesturing at the woman, 'Rachel Dawes, my oldest friend. When she told me she was dating Harvey Dent, I had one thing to say… The guy from those god-awful campaign commercials?'

The crowd tittered, and Isabelle spied Dent off to the side shifting, embarrassed.

'"I believe in Harvey Dent". Nice slogan Harvey,' Bruce grinned, flashing him a thumbs up. 'Certainly caught Rachel's attention. But then I started paying attention to Harvey…'

Isabelle zoned out, uninterested, but managed to raise her glass in time with everyone else as they toasted.

'To the face of Gotham's bright future – Harvey Dent,' Bruce finished, looking Dent straight in the eyes as he took a sip of his champagne.

'Sheesh,' Isabelle muttered to Simon, 'is it just me or are you sensing some animosity between our host and the golden boy of Gotham.'

Simon grinned, 'It's not just you. I suspect Miss Dawes has something to do with it. Now I've gotta go make the rounds. Wanna come with?'

Isabelle looked around, 'Nah. I don't want too many questions about… you know.'

Simon squeezed her arm understandingly, and gave her a light peck on the cheek.

'See you in a bit,' he promised, before clapping a passing man on the shoulders and joining seamlessly in his conversation. Isabelle shook her head. Simon had a talent of being able to interact with and impress anyone he met. Unfortunately, it hadn't rubbed off on Isabelle, who herself had a talent for saying the most inappropriate thing possible without realising it. Besides, she didn't particularly want to be recognised from the news here. She had done a pretty job so far, skirting the edges of the party and standing with the left side of her face towards the wall, or resting her glass on her cheek. Isabelle ran a hand through her ponytail. Perhaps she'd get some more champagne.

Screams.

Followed by gunfire and a panicked silence.

Isabelle froze, her eyes wide and clutching her glass. She strained to see around the press of bodies.

'Good evening, ladies and _gentle_-men. We are tonight's… entertainment.'

Isabelle knew that voice.

_Oh, hell._

**Sorry to leave you on such a cliffy! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, hope you all enjoyed it!**

**Review review review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Please don't hate me for how long this has taken me. I have no excuse other than I'm lazy and unmotivated :/**

3

Isabelle shrank back against the wall, self-preservation overcoming the urge to see what was going on.

_Where the fuck is Simon?!_

'I only have one question. Where is Harvey Dent?' the Joker continued and Isabelle shuddered.

_Damn you Simon. You knew I hated fundraisers. Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

'I'll settle for his loved ones.'

'We're not intimidated by thugs,' came Simon's voice. Isabelle paled. What was he doing?! She started to push through the crowd, ignoring the voice in her head that told her she was being a complete idiot.

'No?' she heard the Joker murmur. 'That's brave.'

Isabelle was almost there. She could just glimpse Simon through the crowd, standing stock-still. She couldn't see the Joker. _Come on, almost there_.

'You show me a brave man,' the Joker continued, 'and I'll show you a _dead _one.'

He swung his gun up and shot Simon point blank. Simon fell backwards, a perfect circle in the middle of his forehead. Isabelle screamed and fell to her knees at the edge of the crowd.

The Joker cocked his head. 'I know that scream. If it isn't poor old _Bells_.'

Isabelle couldn't take her eyes off Simon, lifeless on the floor. She could hear a high-pitched sound, and then realised it was her. She crawled to his body, reaching out with shaking fingers. He was so _still. _He looked like he was sleeping, except for trickle of blood creeping down his cheekbone. Isabelle felt tears running down her face, but she didn't care that her makeup was running. She didn't care that the Joker wasn't even five feet away. At that moment all she cared about was the body of her best and only friend, lost to her. Because of _him_.

Isabelle lifted her head. 'You _bastard!_' she screamed, jumping to her feet. 'How _could _you!'

The Joker looked amused, which only made Isabelle angrier. Not thinking about the consequences, or the fact that he had a loaded gun in his hand, she made a fist and punched him in face with all of her strength.

Or at least she tried to.

The Joker caught her arm mid-throw and wrenched it against her back, pinning Isabelle to his chest. Isabelle shuddered, and stilled. She could feel a knife pressed against her neck and his breath in her ear.

'You know Bells, after our first meeting I thought you might have _wised up_,' he murmured with a slight giggle.

The knife tapped against her skin.

'Did you like my _carving_?' he asked.

'_Fuck you_,' Isabelle hissed. 'Why can't you just leave me alone?'

The Joker's grip on her arm tightened, and Isabelle whimpered, hot streaks of pain shooting down her shoulder.

'You do have an _attitude, _don't you? One day it might just get you _killed_.'

He turned his head to look at Simon. 'Or that guy.'

Enraged, Isabelle threw her head back. It collided with the Jokers chin, and he stumbled back slightly. She heard him laugh. 'A little fight in you. I like that.'

'Then you're going to love me.'

Isabelle could feel a sudden flurry of motion behind her and the Joker was wrenched away, the knife grazing her neck. Confused, Isabelle turned around.

_No way. Seriously?_

It was Batman. He slugged the Joker in the arm, disarming him, and grabbed the head of the henchman that came after him, using him as a ram to knockout the next one that tried to take a shot. Isabelle edged away, shaking, trying to get as far away from the fighting as possible. She could hear the movement in front of her, but her eyes were blurry with tears of shock and pain over Simon's death. Simon, whose body they were stepping on and around in their fight, his beautiful suit now dirty and torn. Isabelle felt perplexed. She felt like she needed to stop the fight and remind them that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong and that Simon was lying dead on the floor.

The fighting paused and Isabelle looked up at the sudden silence. Batman was standing directly in front of her, staring at the Joker. He had a woman in his arms, Rachel Dawes, and a gun pointed at her head.

'Drop the gun,' the Batman said, standing stock-still.

'Oh, sure,' the Joker said, breathing heavily, 'Just take off your mask and show us all who you are.'

Rachel struggled in his arms, shaking her head, her face ashen. The Joker raised the gun behind him and shot out the window, dragging Rachel behind him and holding her over the edge.

'Let her go,' said Batman gruffly, muscled tensed.

The Joker cocked his head. 'Very poor choice of words.'

And he let her go.

Screaming, Rachel dropped. The Batman dived out of the window after her. The Joker stared him, his head tilted to the side. His men, groaning, picked themselves up off the floor.

'What about Dent?' one asked, adjusting his mask, before popping his shoulder back into its socket with a slight groan.

The Joker hummed. 'I'm a man of my word,' he said, adjusting his sleeves. He noticed Isabelle at the edge of the crowd, hair askew and hands shaking. Isabelle looked up and met his gaze. The Joker motioned to a goon next to him. 'Bring the girl.'

_Fuck no!_

Isabelle frantically scrambled backwards into the press of bodies as the man in the clown mask came towards her. She was surrounded by terrified guests, but not one moved to help her. The goon snatched at the halter of her dress, dragging her back towards the elevator doors. Isabelle screamed in fury, writhing and twisting, trying to throw him off. The heels of her shoes scrabbled for purchase on the floor and her nails scratched uselessly at his hands. He threw her into the elevator, and the doors closed with a calm _swoosh_. Huddling in the corner, Isabelle locked her arms around her knees, her ponytail swinging to hide her face. Too late she heard the footsteps towards her, and felt a prick on her arm. Confused, she looked down. A hypodermic needle stuck out of the crease of her elbow. Her eyes blurring, Isabelle looked up at the Joker.

'You drugged me,' she slurred accusingly.

'Observant,' he replied, crouching down in front of her.

Vision fading and muscles going slack, the last thing Isabelle knew was the Joker's smudged makeup and the touch of soft leather on her thigh.

* * *

The ground was cold and hard as Isabelle woke up, groggy and disorientated. Her fingers felt rough concrete.

_I'm not tied to anything. This is already better than last time_.

The room was dark, but Isabelle could see faint outlines of furniture. She stood slowly, carefully, a faint throbbing in the arm where the Joker had stabbed her with a fucking needle. Stretching out her arms, Isabelle stepped unsteadily towards the biggest object. Her hands touched soft fabric - a mattress. She felt around the edge and found a lamp. Isabelle switched it on, and the room was lit by a dim, flickering light. Isabelle raised her eyebrows. She was in an unfurnished room, with no windows, one door, and no chance of escape.

_What the fuck._

Isabelle looked longingly at the mattress – even though she had just woken up she felt exhausted, and her muscles were still weak and wobbly. Isabelle couldn't allow herself to fall asleep though. She trusted the Joker about as far as she could throw him, and she wouldn't put it past him to kill her in her sleep.

A little voice in the back of her mind reminded her that the Joker had had plenty of time to kill her while she was unconscious, but that thought made her even more scared – what was he keeping her alive for?

More to the point, how long was she unconscious? She remembered him touching her thigh as she slowly drifted out of consciousness. Fear choked her.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

Isabelle's hand crept to the hem of her dress. She didn't _feel _sore. Her fingers reached her underwear, and probed. Nothing. She was fine. Isabelle heaved a sigh of relief.

'I hope I'm not _interrupting _something,' came a voice from the shadows, and the Joker stepped into the light. Isabelle screamed and stepped backwards, her feet hitting the mattress. She fell back, and the Joker chuckled, looking down at her.

'Nice view.'

Isabelle's jaw clenched and she glared up at him. His greasy green hair swung in front off his face, and his grease paint was faded and cracked. He appeared to be wearing the same clothes as he was at Dent's fundraiser. This gave her hope; she probably hadn't been out long if he was still wearing the same clothes.

'What the fuck do you want with me?' she hissed, struggling into sitting position in front of him. He chuckled

'Well the boys wanted a plaything and you looked lonely,' the Joker said, stretching out his scars in a hideous grin.

Isabelle slapped him across the face. Hard. He fell backwards slightly before he caught himself.

_Crap. Why would I do that? Why didn't he stop me like last time?_

Isabelle scrambled backwards to the other end of the mattress, breathing hard. The Joker lifted a gloved hand to his cheek, looking at her with an unreadable expression. She saw his pupils dilate.

_Oh shit._

Quick as a cat, he caught her hands with one of his and pinned them to the mattress, above her head. Isabelle shrieked and thrashed, kicking out at him. The Joker put at stop to that by sitting on her hips. She could feel the hardness of his erection, and she squeezed her eyes together, disgusted.

'Get the _fuck _off me,' she hissed. The Joker grinned, amused.

'You are brave, aren't you. You do remember what happens to _brave _people, don't you.'

Tears pooled in Isabelle eyes as she remembered Simon. Whimpering, she wriggled underneath him, trying to free herself. The Joker ground into her.

'Keep doing that,' he murmured, closing his eyes.

Repulsed, Isabelle froze. His eyes snapped open, bringing his gloved fingers to her hair, tucking a strand away behind her ear.

'Who was he anyway?' he asked conversationally, patting her lightly on the cheek with his spare hand. 'Was he your _boyfriend_?'

'_Fuck you_.'

The Joker shook his head. 'No, no, not _boyfriend. _Was your love _unrequited_, then? Poor, pathetic _Bells_.'

Isabelle cursed him with an eruption of expletives that she had not previously known she possessed. The Joker chuckled, amused with her outburst. She struggled to free her hands, but he was much stronger than his lanky frame would suggest, and her attempts were useless. The Joker murmured, 'You certainly have got a mouth on you, don't you? Curse at me _one more time _Bells.'

Isabelle heard the threat in his words, but couldn't help herself, '_Fuck you_, let me go!'

The Joker gazed down at her, his eyes unreadable.

'I think it's time you met the boys. Get acquainted, like.'

_Oh fuck. Fuck, me and my big mouth_.

Still holding tightly to her wrists with one hand, with the other the Joker grabbed her long hair in its ponytail, and dragged her up to standing. Swaying slightly in the heels she was still wearing, Isabelle's hand went to her scalp, and she twisted, trying to free herself. The Joker didn't even notice.

'Come on,' he said, dragging her towards the door. Isabelle dug her nails into his gloves, but he didn't seem to feel it.

'Let me go, you fucker,' Isabelle swore, her teeth gritted. The Joker ignored her. Her heels scrabbled for purchased on the cement floor, but he was walking too fast. She hooked a leg around the doorframe as they passed it, and the Joker grunted, amused. With one hard yank her leg lost its hold and she stumbled head first into the wall opposite. Isabelle moaned, 'I don't think my head can take much more of this.'

The Joker barely looked at her as he continued pulling her down the hallway. He reached the door at the end and paused. Isabelle could hear sound filtering through the thin wood of the door. A television was on, and the sound of pool cues hitting marble balls was accompanied by the clink of glasses. The Joker turned to her slowly, and grinned, showing all of his teeth.

'Come and meet my boys,' he said, and Isabelle whimpered as he gave her hair a hard yank. He shoved the door open and dragged Isabelle through the opening.

**Enjoy the chapter? Leave a review (I like reviews) **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: ****Hello readers! Sorry this chapter is a tad short, I'm trying to make up for it with a faster upload. School has started up again and my workload is ridiculous, so I'll try to squeeze in another chapter soon.**

**In other news, DC has just released its new movies coming out, and Suicide Squad is coming out in 2016! I'm hoping for Harley Quinn!**

**Happy reading! **

**xo Alice**

* * *

4

Isabelle's wrists hurt, and her shoulders were screaming. Her arms were hoisted high above her head, the coarse rope around her wrist attached to a metal hook hanging from the ceiling. The balls of her feet only just touched the rough cement of the floor. She was completely immobile. Isabelle looked around. The Joker's men were sitting around the room in various states of unease, glancing at her nervously before looking away. She couldn't understand it; why hadn't any of them made a move? The Joker was gone, in another room. He'd dragged her in, tied her up, and then left.

Isabelle cleared her throat, 'Uh, hello?'

The men looked at her, and then looked away quickly. Were they scared of her?

_No, that can't be right. They're not scared of me… Oh. Of course. It's the Joker they're scared of. I guess they think I belong to him._

Isabelle frowned. 'Are you not allowed to look at me? Is that it?'

'Shut-up, girl,' a heavyset man growled, his eyes not leaving his beer.

Isabelle ignored him. 'Where am I?'

'I said, shut it!' the same man yelled, getting to his feet, sloshing beer onto the table. His friend, a scrawny guy with messy hair, pulled him down again, whispering into his ear. Isabelle frowned, but was distracted by a new pull in her muscles. She shifted uncomfortably, swearing under her breath. The sound of the door opening caught her attention, and she looked up. The Joker entered the room. His coat was clean, his shirt and waistcoat neat. Amusingly, he was wearing the exact same style and colour of clothes that he had been on all of the previous times she had seen him. She smirked to herself, imagining rows of matching shirts and coats, all lined up.

The Joker cleared his throat, 'Boys, we have a job. We're going to make a _visit_.'

There was an excited murmuring around the room as the men stood up, some finishing off their drinks, some finding their jackets, others loading ammunition in guns. The Joker watched them, as hunched as ever, fiddling distractedly with a knife. His eyes flicked manically around the room, until they landed on Isabelle, still in her dress and heels. She strained against the ropes, discomforted by the intensity of his gaze. One of the men followed the Joker's line of site.

'Uh, boss?' he asked, 'whose going to watch after the girl?'

The Joker looked at him, 'No-one _misses _a job in _my_ crew. Unless they're _injured._' He looked around the room again, at the men lined up in front of him. He pulled out a gun, and Isabelle tensed. He looked at her, and fired a shot. The heavyset man who had told her to shut-up hit the ground, groaning and holding his thigh. Isabelle gasped as blood welled up around his clutching fingers, staining his trouser leg.

The Joker glanced down at him in what looked like amusement, and then back at Isabelle, 'The boys and I are taking care of some _business. _Patrick Harvey and Richard Dent.' He giggled, 'Kevin here will look after you.'

Kevin looked up at Isabelle, who flinched at the hate in his eyes. She looked down at her feet, knowing she was the reason for his pain. The rest of the men filed out, not even sparing a glance for Kevin as they stepped around him.

'I'm sorry,' Isabelle whispered. Kevin looked up at her, and slowly stood, groaning as he put pressure on his leg.

'Just a graze,' he said, 'Boss knows how to aim.'

He gave a light chuckle that was at odds with the look on his face. Isabelle frowned, and followed Kevin's line of site. Mounted in the corner was a camera, a little red light blinking.

_So that's why no-one tried anything. _

Kevin casually crossed the room, coming to a pained stop directly underneath the camera. Isabelle realised that anybody watching the footage would no longer be able to see him. He reached up and pulled the cord out of the socket. The little red light stopped blinking.

'What are you doing?' Isabelle asked nervously. Kevin looked at her.

'You _bitch_,' he hissed, the fake cheeriness replaced by outright animosity.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, 'It's not _my _fucking fault if your boss kidnapped me.'

'Well you caught his attention, didn't you?' Kevin replied, manoeuvring awkwardly around the table, 'That's your fault.'

'I guess I'm noticeable,' Isabelle hissed, straining heavily against the ropes. She was getting more and more uncomfortable with the way Kevin was looking at her, and, as usual, she covered up her uneasiness with a smart mouth. Not the best way to deflate a dangerous situation.

'Yes,' Kevin said, leaning heavily on a chair, 'you are.'

'Don't you think you should bandage your leg or something?' Isabelle asked desperately, trying to take his mind off whatever he was about to do to her. He looked down. His trousers were stained a rusty brown, but the blood seemed to have stopped flowing.

'I've had worse,' Kevin grunted. He looked at her, top to bottom. 'I can see why the boss likes you. Not too bad to look at, are you? Except for, you know, the scar.'

He had gotten alarmingly close, and he reached out a hand to touch her maimed cheek. Isabelle jerked back.

'Get the _fuck _away from me,' she hissed.

Kevin brought his hand back and slapped her hard across the face. She sagged, the ropes supporting her entire weight, her face smarting with pain. Kevin gave a little chuckle.

'Not so tough now, are you,' he said, stepping closer to her. He ran a hand leisurely up her waist, lingering at the edge of her breast. Isabelle tried to shy away, but the ropes didn't allow much movement. Kevin chuckled again. Isabelle took a breath to curse at him again, but Kevin put his hand over her mouth.

_His hand smells like cheese. Ew._

'I wouldn't try that again, darling,' Kevin said smarmily, 'not unless you want another bruise.'

Isabelle bit down on his hand, hard. She could feel her teeth ripping his skin, and she gagged at the metallic taste of his blood in her mouth. Kevin gave a loud yell and yanked his hand away, swearing.

'Don't call me darling,' Isabelle growled. Kevin looked up from his injured hand and blanched at the site she made. Her lips were smeared with blood. Combined with the scar on her cheek, the bruise forming on her cheekbone, and the manic look in her eyes, she made quite the picture.

'C – crazy bitch!' Kevin stuttered, nursing his hand. Hobbling on his injured leg around the table, he picked up his gun and released the safety. Isabelle paled.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Kevin laughed. 'Not so confident now, are you. You can't bite a fucking gun.'

Isabelle tried a smile, but Kevin saw his blood on her teeth and cocked his gun.

'The boss won't miss you,' he said, swinging the gun up to her head. Isabelle closed her eyes.

'Now, now, _now_,' the Joker said from the doorway. Isabelle opened her eyes a crack. 'I would have thought _shooting _her would not fall under the same, uh, category as _looking after her._'

_Great, now the crazy one is here to liven things up._

Kevin cracked a weak smile. 'I wasn't actually gonna shoot her boss, just… you, know, threaten her a bit.'

'Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,' the Joker murmured, crossing the room in long, jittery steps. Kevin shrank back. 'I always know when you're lying. Don't I always know when you're lying?'

Kevin nodded mutely, pale and sweating.

'I can't have, uh, _liars_ in my crew, can I?' the Joker said.

Isabelle hardly dared to breath. She had never truly appreciated how scary the Joker was. She knew he was a murderer, a psychopath, fit for the Asylum; but categorising him, putting him into boxes had helped her to understand his actions, to justify them. He's crazy, of course he's out there murdering people. After he had shot Simon she was in too much shock to process it, to think about it. But seeing the Joker here, terrorising one of his own men, Isabelle realised something. He wasn't only a murderer, a psychopath, insane; he was _inhuman_.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Isabelle grimaced as the blood pooled around her bare toes – she had finally kicked off the ridiculous heels that she had been wearing at the Wayne fundraiser. She wished now that she had kept them on. What used to be Kevin was lying at her feet, blood still oozing from the deep cuts on his body. The Joker was nowhere to be found – she assumed that he was off finishing the job with Patrick Harvey and Richard Dent. Isabelle had long since blocked out the smell of the blood, and it worried her that she was becoming accustomed to it.

'_I can't have, uh, _liars _in my crew, can I?' the Joker said._

_Kevin look at him and licked his lips nervously, 'Boss I swear I'm not… I'm not lying.'_

'_Another lie?' the Joker almost purred, 'My, my, Kevin, you must really want to die today.'_

_Isabelle blanched at the casual way the Joker said it. He was barely a foot away from Kevin at that point, and the sharp little knife he was holding twitched towards Kevin's face. _

'_Please, boss. Please!' _

_His plea was cut off by a scream as the Joker carefully sliced across his cheek. It was much deeper than what he had done to Isabelle; Isabelle could see teeth and gums as he dragged the knife across. Kevin collapsed onto his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood with grasping fingers. The Joker looked up at Isabelle, a grin playing across his face, which vanished quickly when he realised she wasn't looking; her head was bowed and her eyes screwed tightly shut. He stepped over Kevin and put the knife delicately under her chin, forcing her head up. _

'_You will watch this,' he growled, 'this is for you.'_

_Isabelle whimpered, but opened her eyes, still trying not to look at Kevin. He was turning paler by the second, in stark contrast to the bright red of his blood. His fingers were coated, and the collar of his shirt was drenched. The Joker crouched down next to him again, and Kevin tried to draw away, but he was weak from loss of blood. He lifted his hand, attempting to shield his face, and the Joker grabbed it. With one quick movement he sliced across with his little knife, and Isabelle screamed with Kevin as the tips of his fingers dropped to the floor. She looked with horror and disgust as Kevin held his mutilated hand up, cut off to the first knuckle. His blood was spurting from the wounds. While Kevin was distracted by the loss of his fingers, the Joker cut a line up his thigh, giggling to himself as Kevin screamed again. Isabelle closed her eyes as the Joker continued to cut, never letting up. After what seemed like an age, the pained whimpers cut off with a gurgle, and Isabelle opened her eyes to see Kevin's throat being cut. His head rolled back, and the wound opened like a wide scarlet grin on his neck. Isabelle almost gagged at the metallic smell in the air. _

_The Joker was covered in Kevin's blood, and he shrugged of his purple coat as he stood up fluidly. He peeled off his gloves, which had turned a maroon colour, and dropped them near Isabelle's feet. His vest was spotted with blood, but he seemed pleased and kept the garment on. He was still holding his little knife, saturated with Kevin's blood, red to the handle. The Joker crossed over to Isabelle, who flinched away. He tsked at her, and then carefully wiped the blood off the knife with the long ends of the halter of her dress. _

'_Looks like you're on your own Bells,' he said, as he crossed to the other side of the room, 'I wouldn't worry though, you're a bit _tied up _at the moment.'_

'_Fuck you,' Isabelle hissed, but the Joker was already out of the door. _

Isabelle wasn't sure how long she had been hanging there. Her fingers were completely numb, her shoulders screaming from the pressure. She was getting tired, her eyes drooping occasionally, only to be woken by the pangs of hunger that shot across her navel. Isabelle took the opportunity to look around the room. It was a large, open space with a small door set in the wall directly opposite her. An untidy kitchen was set up in the corner to her left, littered in cans and plates. The billiard table seemed to double as a dining table, as it too was covered in cans and glasses. To her right was a set of mismatched couches, sunken in the middle and draped with stained and tattered blankets. There were old mattresses interspersed between them; Isabelle realised that this was where the men slept. She could see a door leading into a bathroom beyond the couches, and it reminded her of her full bladder; she shouldn't have been so heavy on the champagne at the fundraiser. Eventually, her eyes couldn't help but travel back to the body at her feet. It was so still. Isabelle couldn't help but think of Simon, and a tear trickled over her cheek, followed by more and more.

_Pull yourself together. _

Wishing she wasn't crying – without hands to wipe away the tears they were tickling her cheeks – Isabelle looked up at the ropes tying her wrists together. She had just realised that the Joker had not fixed the camera in the corner, and, after scanning the rest of the room, she was pretty sure it was the only one. Cursing herself for not realising sooner, she attempted to work her wrists free of the knot – a difficult task seeing as her fingers were completely numb. It was lucky that he had suspended her almost off the ground as the weight of her body worked in her favour against the rope. Straining, Isabelle managed to slide her hands out of the rope, grimacing as it cut into the tender flesh of her wrist. Pulling suddenly free she collapsed onto the floor, unable to catch herself in time. Muttering angrily, Isabelle carefully pulled herself up.

_Get the fuck out of here._

Stepping around the blood, Isabelle walked carefully to the door. She wasn't sure how long the Joker would take on his job – she supposed he'd gotten held up by his mutilation of Kevin. Her stomach gurgled and Isabelle realised she hadn't eaten in days. Treading wearily to the fridge, she cautiously opened the door and sighed noisily. She hadn't been expecting gourmet meals, but she _had _been expecting something edible. The fridge was stacked high with plates of congealing meat, the fat hardening around the edges, wilted leaves of what she assumed used to be lettuce. The only thing that appeared fit for human consumption was the six packs of beer that lined the shelves.

'Seriously? You stopped for a _snack-break?_'

Isabelle whipped around, only to find a knife held to her throat. The hand holding it was small and delicate, but lined with callouses and scars. The arm was lean and tan, with more scars criss-crossing their way up to her – _her? – _shoulder. The girl was grinning manically, her brown hair messily tied into a ponytail. She was wearing tight black leather, and sturdy boots – she was much more appropriately dressed for the occasion than Isabelle was in her long black gown.

Isabelle was frozen against the fridge door while the girl looked her over.

'You look like shit,' she grunted. 'You're so skinny. No wonder you stopped for food.'

'Who are you?' Isabelle choked out, trying not to move her neck lest she suffer a premature death.

'I was you,' the girl said softly, 'and now I'm this.'

The knife disappeared from her throat, and Isabelle's legs buckled in relief. She was sweating, and she could feel the adrenaline pumped through her, making her hands quiver.

'What do you mean you were me?' Isabelle asked, edging around the counter to where she knew there was a knife sitting.

'He took me, too,' the girl murmured, thumbing the edge of her blade. Isabelle's fingers scrabbled for the knife behind her. Feeling the cool touch, Isabelle tried to calm her breathing her she slowly wrapped her hand around the handle.

'I don't know why he wants you though,' the girl said, her voice getting cold and her gaze hardening. 'I'm still here. Why does he want you!'

'I – I don't know,' Isabelle squeaked, alarmed by the ferocious look in the girls eyes, 'he just grabbed me! I don't want to be here!'

'That's a lie!' Knife Girl snarled. 'You're trying to take over! You want to take my place!'

She took a step closer to Isabelle, who gripped the knife behind her back, slippery with sweat. The girl raised her knife, and Isabelle reacted. She plunged her knife into the girl's side. Knife Girl screeched, dropping her blade, hands going frantically to the knife and scrabbling uselessly at it.

Isabelle was in a state of shock. She had just stabbed someone. She. Had. Just. Stabbed. Someone.

Knife Girl pulled the knife out of her torso, looking at the blood that dripped off of it.

'That was _rude_,' she said. She flicked the knife against Isabelle's throat. Isabelle closed her eyes; she was out of weapons and out of ideas.

A loud _thwack _sound cut through the air and Knife Girl stiffened. Isabelle opened her eyes just in time to step out of the way as the girl toppled forward, her hand loosening on the blade she had been holding to Isabelle's throat. The girl collapsed against the kitchen counter, before sliding down and landing in a crumpled heap on the linoleum floor. There was a knife buried in her back. Buried to the hilt. Isabelle heard the Joker chuckled darkly, and she turned around slowly. He stood in the doorway, his men clustered behind him peering over his shoulder in an attempt to see what had happened.

Isabelle was in a state of moral confusion; on the one hand, the Joker had kidnapped her, cut her face, killed her best friend, and then kidnapped her again. On the other hand, he had saved her life from a knife-wielding crazy person. Then again, he was a knife-wielding crazy person, and he was the one who had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Isabelle settled on being relieved she was alive, and equally angry with the Joker and Knife Girl.

The Joker crossed the room to look down at Knife Girl, whose blood was pooling around her torso.

'That's a shame,' the Joker said musingly, crouching down. 'She wasn't too bad. The jealous type, obviously, but we can't blame her for getting attached to little old me.'

Isabelle glared at him, 'She tried to kill me because of you!'

The Joker shrugged. 'Only indirectly. Did you stick her too?'

He was looking at the bloodied knife. Isabelle flinched.

'She was going to kill me! I wasn't going to just stand there!'

Isabelle realised she was defending her actions to someone who had just committed murder, possibly not for the first time that night, and shut-up. She didn't have to justify herself to _him_.

'I'm a little impressed,' the Joker said, standing swiftly and leaning against the table, 'Didn't think you had it in you.'

The way he was looking at her made Isabelle uncomfortable, but she couldn't hold back a snippy retort: 'I don't think impressing you is all that of an achievement. You're standards can't be very high.'

'My standards are plenty high.'

'All I'd have to do is blow up a building or something, to get in your good books.'

'Blowing up buildings requires more planning than you'd think,' the Joker said contemplatively.

'I'm sure you would know,' Isabelle bit back, before stopping and realising she was bantering with a psychopath, in a room where two corpses were staining the floor. The Joker chuckled again.

'Ya know, when I grabbed you, you weren't so fun. You shrieked and thrashed and generally weren't a very gracious guest.'

'Guest?!' cried Isabelle indignantly, but the Joker held a gloved finger to her lips and she stiffened.

'Sh sh sh. Don't interrupt. You're a lot more _fun _now. I guess killing your boyfriend toughened you up a little.'

Isabelle gave an enraged cry and went to push him away from her, but he caught her wrists deftly and wrenched her arms behind her back, spinning her so her back was pressed against his chest.

'I _like _you,' the Joker said into her ear. Isabelle shuddered, revolted, as his lips brushed against her ear lobe.

'Get off of me, you freak,' Isabelle grunted. The Joker hissed and wrenched her right arm. Isabelle let out a scream as her shoulder popped out of its socket. The Joker gripped her as she sobbed, still holding her arm at an unnatural angle.

'It's _rude _to call people names.'

* * *

**There you go, a little bit more action for you. Who is Knife Girl? Find out next chapter!**

**Reviews keep me writing folks! Lay 'em on!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I know what you're thinking: Wow, she actually updated! Expect a bit more of that now that I'm on holidays (thank the lord). I've just finished mapping out each chapter, which makes the story a lot easier to write. At this point I predict that this fic will end up being around 15 chapters in length.  
Happy reading!**

* * *

6

The Joker pushed Isabelle away from him, and Isabelle whimpered as her arm moved, her shoulder grinding. She clasped her shoulder, feeling the bone and the socket. She looked up just in time to see the Joker leave the room, not bothering to close the door. Isabelle sank to the floor, holding her shoulder, trying not to cry anymore in front of these men. She flinched as one dropped to his haunches beside her. He was thin, very thin, with dirty blond hair that hung scraggily to his shoulders. Gently he took her arm. Not so gently her wrenched her arm up, and Isabelle screamed as her shoulder slid back into place. The man chuckled.

'Dollar for every time I've had to do that.'

Isabelle looked up at him, frowning, 'What?'

The man shook his head, brushing off the question. 'I'm Sly,' he introduced himself.

Isabelle nodded to him, 'Isabelle.'

Sly chuckled, 'Yeah, I know. Joker wouldn't stop going on about you after the bank.'

Isabelle wasn't sure if she should feel flattered or disgusted.

'Word of advice, though,' Sly continued, 'don't call him a freak, he doesn't like that.'

Isabelle grimaced, 'Noted.

She heard a rasping sound, and looked up in time to see the one of the men pulling Knife Girl's body across the room. She could see the smear of blood trailing behind her, and Isabelle grimaced and looked down at her hands.

Sly looked at her, 'You know, I'm surprised you even got a shot in. Not many people can get past her guard, much less stab her.'

Isabelle looked at him, 'She seemed distracted. Confused. She wasn't sure why I was there. She thought I was replacing her. Who was she?'

Sly looked at Isabelle carefully, 'Are you sure you want to know? I mean, I think this is what you're in for.'

Isabelle felt her resolve strengthen: 'I want to know.'

'Well, ok then. Her name was Peyton Riley. She started off like you, albeit a little crazier. Joker found her one day, talking to a dummy. I guess they kind of hit it off. Joker brought her back here and trained her up a little, sent her a little crazier, a little more dangerous. She'd been with us maybe two years?

'Then she got boring. She was doing the same old things, every day. I guess she liked the routine. Joker didn't. Their relationship got a little strained. It was around that time that Joker decided it was time for us all to stretch our legs, so to speak. We started drawing up plans to rob the bank. Peyton was meant to come with us… Well, she had been clingier than usual, so the Joker broke her ankle, so she couldn't come with. By chance, I had received a gun shot to my right arm, and Joker decided I should stay behind and babysit. I'm glad I did. If I hadn't, I would be dead right now. All of the men who went on the bank job were killed. All these boys you see around here are new.

'I don't think he was expecting to pick you up. I guess he saw you, thought of how annoying Peyton was, and decided you would be more fun. You also provided an easy way of getting rid of Peyton. And here we are.'

Isabelle sat on the table, digesting this information. Sly watched her curiously.

_So at least I know I'm here for a reason_, Isabelle thought_, the new Peyton. _

Being the new Peyton really wasn't the best place to be. Peyton had just _died_, and it appeared that the Joker had been abusing her, if he felt no qualms about breaking her ankle. Isabelle was angry. So the Joker fucking _knew _that Peyton was going to find her?! What if he hadn't made it back in time! She could have died!

'So what's he going to do to me then?' she demanded, looking at Sly. 'Am I going to be trained too? Will he get bored of me too? Will he kill me with my replacement?'

Sly looked uncomfortable. 'That's a possibility. Try not to make him bored, won't you?'

Isabelle glared at him. Her stomach growled.

'Do you have any food in here?'

* * *

Burgers, Isabelle reflected, were an underrated food. She sat at the kitchen table, munching on some sort of cheesy meaty concoction that she would normally never touch in a million years – she had always been a health nut, and her job at the gym hadn't helped matters. But now… now she could see the fascination. She took the final bite and sighed, leaning back against her chair, feeling nourished for the first time since she'd been taken. Cur, the man who had driven out for food, grinned at her, and patted his stomach. Isabelle grinned back – it was impossible to be afraid of these men. They were all so human, a welcome opposite from the Joker. She was given to understand that they didn't choose their names themselves – Joker named them after they had spent significant time with them. Kevin, it seemed, had not earned the right for a new name before he was killed.

_Good riddance_, Isabelle reflected, thinking of Kevin's less than honourable intentions.

* * *

'Poker!' yelled Striker, making Isabelle jump.

'You idiot,' said Sly. 'You don't yell poker when you've won.'

Striker gave a toothy smile, 'I do.'

Isabelle giggled, and sipped her beer. She had been coerced into being the fourth member in a round of poker, and, as she predicted, she was absolutely horrible at it. Nevertheless, she was having a better time hanging around with these men than she had ever thought she would, given the situation. Without the Joker in the room, she felt that she could breathe; he had such a constricting presence. When he was in the room, he was the sole focus. With him out of the picture Isabelle found that she could actually relax and try to have a good time.

Giving the game up as a bad job, she threw her cards down onto the table. Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she threw her head back and stretched, hissing as her shoulder strained.

'You ok?' Sly asked, concerned. She nodded. Isabelle still could not understand these men. How could they be so nice, yet work for the Joker? They acted like regular men – they drank beer, played cards, joked around – and yet they felt no qualms in killing innocent people. She supposed that it must have been the life they had been dealt. Surely it was unfortunate circumstance that brought them to be here. Isabelle looked sideways at Sly, who sipped his beer, staring off into space. Did he have a family? Was he coerced into this life, if only to ensure their safety? Isabelle couldn't bring herself to ask. It was such a personal question, and she wasn't sure that she would like the answer.

Before she could mull over it further, the door slammed open and the Joker strolled into the room. A wash of fear settled over Isabelle. She wasn't sure her body could stand another encounter with the Joker. Her cheek twinged at the thought. The psychopath in question looked jerkily around the room, until finally his eyes rested on Isabelle.

'Bells,' he said, his tongue flicking out to lick his scars briefly, 'No hard feelings, right?'

Isabelle was caught off guard.

'Uh,' she stuttered, before realising that there was only one appropriate response, 'N-no. No hard feelings.'

The Joker grinned, a hideous sight as his scars pulled out the corners of his lips, 'I'm so _glad_. I wouldn't want you to be _mad _at me, would I?'

Isabelle offered a weak grin in response. She didn't know how to act around this new Joker. It was extremely disarming the way he chopped and changed. It made her uncertain, and uncertainty was a sure way to get killed.

The Joker moved from the doorway, and threw himself down onto the chair next to Isabelle in a movement that would be ungraceful in any other man. Isabelle couldn't stop herself from leaning away slightly. The Joker just pressed himself closer to her, until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. She supposed this was just a new way of intimidating her, of keeping her uncomfortable in his presence. Isabelle could feel the hard muscles of his arm next to her. Her eyes travelled down to his purple gloves, and she shuddered when she saw that they were stained with blood. The Joker must have felt her movement, as he turned and grinned at her, before snapping off his gloves and putting them on the table.

'It's a messy job, wouldn't you say?' he said as an explanation (or so Isabelle assumed).

'What is? Killing people? I'd say so, yes,' Isabelle quipped, before shutting up and mentally kicking herself. Sly looked at her in disbelief, and she grimaced at him before looking out of the corner of her eye to see the Joker's reaction to her idiocy.

He was shaking silently, and it was a few seconds before she realised that it was silent laughter. Soon laughter was exploding out of him, manic _hees _and _hoos _that put Isabelle on edge. His crew must have been used to it, as they joined him in his laughter. Isabelle couldn't laugh. She was too put off by the man beside her.

_Stop sassing him you fucking idiot. Here, what you say could get you killed. _

The Joker's laughter died out, and he turned to look at her.

'I knew you be _fun _to have around,' he said. 'Didn't I say she would be fun?'

The crew nodded. Isabelle wasn't sure if she should take it as a compliment, so she said nothing. The Joker continued to grin at her, tapping his fingers against the table. It was strange seeing him without his gloves. His fingers were long and thin, littered with small scars. His nails were messy, as if they'd been ripped off more than a few times. Smudged greasepaint covered each finger. Isabelle wondered what kind of life he must have led to be left with hands such as these. She decided that she would prefer not to know.

'Am I gonna end up like Peyton?' she blurted out without thinking, then covered her mouth with a gasp. Now he knew exactly what she was afraid of.

The Joker looked amused, 'Do you think I would go to all the trouble of getting ya here if I didn't want you around?'

That made sense, Isabelle supposed, but she couldn't help but ask her next question, 'But what if you get bored? Will you find a replacement to kill me?'

She noticed that all of the crew's conversation had stopped, and the boys were glancing furtively at Isabelle and the Joker, trying to listen without looking like they were listening.

The Joker leant back in his chair, 'My advice to you is to not get _boring_.'

He turned to look at Isabelle, who gulped and nodded. _How exactly does one refrain from becoming boring? _she wondered to herself. Hopefully she was rescued before there was any danger of that happening.

_Where the fuck is Batman?! _He should have found her by now, what with his sneakiness and flying rodent ways. He was there at the fundraiser, but he couldn't find a simple little hideout? Wherever he was, Isabelle hoped he would get to her soon. The longer she stayed here, the higher the chance that she would suffer an early end.

Isabelle noticed the Joker looking at her up and down. Self-conscious, she crossed her arms and hunched.

'You need training,' the Joker announced, 'You're scrawny and underfed. Didn't Simon take care of you?'

Isabelle glared at him. How dare he talk about Simon, when he was the one that killed him. Her best friend. Her only friend. The Joker caught her glare, and chuckled in his manic way.

'Did he not _like_ to take care of you? Did he not _satisfy _you?' he continued. The crew burst into laughter, and Isabelle, who had caught the double-entendre, saw red. Letting out a screech she threw a punch, which, in hindsight, had no hope of reaching its target. The Joker caught her fist, and laughed.

'_Terrible_ form,' he said, glancing at his men, who laughed again.

Isabelle glowered, but bit her lip. She had to learn to control her temper.

'You know what would be _fun?' _the Joker asked her, squeezing her fist. Isabelle grimaced as her knuckles ground together. 'I'm going to train you _myself._ Wouldn't that be _fun?'_

Isabelle couldn't think of anything less fun, but nevertheless ground out, 'I look forward to it.'

The Joker chuckled, releasing her hand. Isabelle hissed as she straightened her sore fingers.

'You may not like my approach,' he said, 'but at least it'll be more fun for me to kill you if you ever get boring. Always _liked _a girl that fights back.'

Isabelle saw could see where he was going with this. On the one hand, if she learnt to fight, if he ever tried to kill her she would stand more of a chance. On the other hand, she couldn't see how 'training' with him was going to be a pleasant experience. One slip up and she may die anyway. However, Isabelle also knew that she didn't have a choice. She caught the Joker looking at her again.

'You look a little too _fancy _to be here,' he said, gesturing at her dress. 'Don't you boys think?'

The men all nodded.

'Can't have 'er lookin' better than you, boss,' Striker put in. Isabelle glared at him.

The Joker nodded, 'You're right. Bells, _I _think you need a new wardrobe. Isn't that a girls dream?'

Isabelle nodded tightly, seething. As much as she wanted to wear something else other than this now torn and dirty dress, she knew she wasn't going to like anything _he _got for her.

The Joker called Striker over, gesturing for him to lean down, before whispering something in his ear that Isabelle couldn't hear. Striker glanced over at Isabelle, grinned, and left the room.

Silence fell around the room as the men and Isabelle wondered what had been said. The Joker for his part resumed the drumming of his fingers on the table, adding a hum here and there in a tune that Isabelle had never heard before. Slowly, the men went back to their conversations, and Isabelle was left sitting at the table with the Joker, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his presence, although at the present moment he was ignoring her completely.

Soon enough, Striker returned. Isabelle blanched when she saw what he was holding. Peyton's leather suit dangled from his fist as he thrust it at her, Isabelle catching it reflexively.

'You… You want me to wear this?' she asked the Joker tentatively, though she already knew the answer.

'Don't you think, hmm?' the Joker replied, chuckling in his agitated way.

Isabelle nodded, looking down at the outfit. It was still wet with Peyton's blood, and her fingers were stained with it.

'Where… where can I –' she faltered.

'Where can you get changed?' the Joker asked, and Isabelle nodded mutely.

'Well the boys promise not to look, don't they?' he asked the room. A chorus of promises resounded around the room. The Joker nodded, satisfied.

'There you go,' he said, 'the boys and I promise we won't peek.'

Isabelle stared at him. Did he really mean to make her strip right here with them all in the room. She opened her mouth to refuse, but paused when she feel a cool blade on her forearm. The Joker tapped the blade against her skin, and Isabelle nodded tightly.

The Joker withdrew the weapon and turned away from her, comically covering his eyes with his hand, and motioning for the crew to do the same. Isabelle realised that this was just another way for the Joker to manipulate her. He was showing her the exact level of control that he had, and he clearly revelled in making her uncomfortable in the process. Him making her strip wasn't for any perverse pleasure, she realised, but a way reminding Isabelle once again whom she was with.

Isabelle reached up with trembling hands to undo the halter of her dress. The knot was tight, and Isabelle's shaking fingers couldn't quite work the knot. Suddenly, she felt a blade pass between her fingers, and a jerk the halter was cut. Barely managing to catch the dress in time as it fell towards her waist, Isabelle turned around and glared at the Joker.

'You're _welcome_,' he said. The crew seemed to take his speaking as permission to look around. Holding the sheared ends of the dress, Isabelle scowled at each of them in turn, willing them to turn back around. In return she was bombarded with winks and crude gestures. Her cheeks reddening, she grabbed the leather jacket with one hand, wincing as her fingers grew sticky with blood. She quickly put an arm at a time through the sleeves, using one hand to stop her breasts from spilling out of the ruined dress. Isabelle realised with revulsion that the leather was still warm, and she shuddered. She quickly zipped it up. It was tight across the chest – evidently she was bustier than Peyton had been. To Isabelle's annoyance the zip stopped only halfway up her breasts, leaving a hell of a lot of cleavage showing. She was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra, and she hoped to god that she didn't get cold any time soon. The jacket was loose in the arms though – evidence of Isabelle's lack of muscle. She quickly stepped into the leather pants, letting the dress pool around her ankles. The pants hung low on her hips, leaving a small gap of skin between them and the jacket. The pants, too, were slightly loose.

Self-consciously, Isabelle turned around to face the Joker. He smiled at her, showing all of his yellow teeth.

'Just like a _doll_,' he said, and Isabelle shuddered.

* * *

**Woo! Longest chapter yet! This was just over 3000 words, and I expect that each chapter will be roughly this. Shout-out to Peyton Riley! I know that she and the Joker never met in the comics (at least as far I can tell), but I couldn't resist slipping her in there.  
I am also aware that Isabelle spends a ridiculous amount of time glaring at people. I think that glaring has become her default face.  
Review review review! (seriously, reviews keep me motivated to write)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello all, and look, I actually kept my promise! Another chapter out before New Years! Woo!**

**Warning: Semi-graphic non-consensual sex in this chapter.**

* * *

7

Isabelle hissed at the knife once more found purchase in her flesh. She could have sworn that she'd told her feet to dodge that one, but apparently her legs had decided that they'd much rather move at the rate of a senile tortoise. The blood from the shallow cut quickly joined the stream that was already making its way down her arm. The knife she held in her hand felt heavy and unfamiliar. Cur had given it to her with a quick clap on the shoulder and a whisper of good luck that she wished she didn't need.

Being told to fight someone with a knife was one thing, Isabelle reflected, as she turned once more to face the Joker, actually doing it was another.

The Joker circled around her, and Isabelle spun on the spot to keep him in her sight. He jumped forward and Isabelle shrieked as she stumbled backward to escape him. The men who were standing around them, making up the edges of the ring, chuckled at Isabelle's ineptness.

'This isn't fair,' Isabelle ground out, her teeth gritted. 'You can't give someone a knife and expect them to know how to defend themselves!'

The Joker laughed at her, 'Just think of the _learning_ curve. You have the incentive, don't you?'

Isabelle had to admit that he was right. This definitely wasn't the classroom experience she had been hoping for, but she supposed it was as good as she was going to get. She slashed out the Joker with the knife, painfully aware that her effort could be likened to a grandmother flapping a bingo wing to flag down a passing cab. Her attempt inconvenienced the Joker no more than a slight breeze would have. He leant back slightly to avoid the blade, and responded by cracking the hilt of his knife against Isabelle's temple.

Isabelle collapsed to her knees, her knife skittering across the floor. Her vision receded to just a dot of light surrounded by grey, and she groaned, grasping her head. The Joker seemed to think that this was an opportune moment to slash a line up her forearm. Isabelle barely felt it as she blinked in quick succession, trying to clear her head and regain her vision. Slowly, very slowly, her sight returned. With it returned the pain in her arms and chest. Kneeling still on the floor, Isabelle took a quick inventory. The tank top she had found herself in (she was given to understand that it was another gift from Peyton from beyond the grave) was drenched in the blood that was steadily trickling down from the numerous cuts that haphazardly criss-crossed their way over her collarbones and across her shoulders. Her arms, too, were crossed with slashes, an uneven pattern that made the OCD part of her brain wring its hands in consternation. She surveyed the newest cut on her forearm – the way it crossed perpendicular to the other cuts the Joker saw fit to bestow upon her made it look like a tally mark.

By her reckoning she and the Joker had been at it for an hour and a half or more, and at this point she couldn't even discern the pain of one cut from another. She was one big hurt, and was rapidly tiring – from the blood-loss or the exercise, she couldn't tell.

Isabelle felt the Joker prodding her with a gloved finger.

'I don't have all day, Bells.'

'Fuck off,' she spat, not looking at him and not caring how he might react. What more pain could he bring her that she wasn't already feeling?

'Rude,' she heard the Joker murmur. 'I don't _like_ rude people, Bells.'

Isabelle finally snapped.

'_My name isn't Bells!_' she screamed, almost hysterically. The pain had cemented itself at the forefront of her mind, and it throbbed rhythmically with her heartbeat. The Joker started to laugh, and it pierced her mind like tiny daggers, her pain spiking with each panted laugh. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at her head, trying to drive the sound out, to banish it from her mind. She curled into a ball on the concrete floor, her arms and chest slick with blood as the Joker continued to laugh beside her.

Sly winced as he saw Isabelle curl up into herself, her bloody hands holding her head as the Joker's manic laughter permeated the room. The last two hours hadn't been pleasant for him, watching as the Joker cut Isabelle as she attempted in vain to defend herself from him and his 'teaching method'. He knew the men beside him were enjoying Isabelle's pain, and he could hear them chuckling as she cringed against the floor. The Joker finally stopped laughing at Isabelle's outburst, to Sly's relief, but she didn't move from her position. The Joker played with her hair, and Sly could hear a tiny whimper from Isabelle.

'If I were you, I'd _appreciate _my new name,' the Joker crooned at her, and she shuddered, trying to draw her arms tighter around her knees. Sly grimaced as her slight movement reopened the cuts on her arms, and her blood ran anew.

Without any preamble or sign of his intention, the Joker lifted her head by her hair, still held in its ponytail, and slammed it down against the concrete with a _thwack _that made Sly wince. Isabelle slumped against the floor, her blood starting to form a pool underneath her still body. The Joker stood swiftly, surprising Sly as usual with his deceptive grace. He motioned to the men that were still gathered around.

'Get her cleaned up,' he said, before exited the room with the kick of his foot against the door.

He seemed to reconsider his statement, as he poked his head through the door a moment later, 'And if any of you hurt her I will cut your hands off and hang them around your neck.'

He nodded at the silent room and left.

Sly decided to take charge of the situation.

'I'll get her washed,' he said curtly, not trusting any of the men not to try anything with her, despite the Joker's graphic threat.

The rest of the crew filed out of the room, and Sly sat back on his haunches as he surveyed his new charge.

* * *

When Isabelle came to, the first thing she noticed was the blinding pain in her head. It was worse than the hangover she'd had the morning after Simon threw her a spontaneous birthday party – and _that _had felt like someone had decided to use her head as a football and boot her across the pitch. The second thing she noticed, as she opened her eyes, were the bandages that were neatly wrapped around her arms and chest. She touched them cautiously. They were so _white_. It was almost blinding. Then she realised that what she had assumed were spots in her vision were actually spots of blood seeping through the bandages, and it all came back to her.

'Ah crap,' she moaned, closing her eyes and thinking out she must have looked in the ring with the Joker – like an ant trying to escape a boot, most likely.

'You… You ok?' Isabelle heard a tentative voice ask. Isabelle's eyes shot open, and she was surprised to see Sly sitting at the foot of the mattress she was stretched out on. Simultaneously, she realised that she was in the same room she had woken up in after that travesty of a fundraiser.

'Did… Did you do this?' she asked, gesturing at the bandages that covered her upper body. Sly nodded, and blushed. The response was at odd with Sly's less than savoury appearance, and it made Isabelle grin.

'I had to take off your shirt,' he said, going pink again, 'to, you know…'

He gestured at the bandages. Isabelle cringed slightly, wishing once again that she had a bra. She understood Sly's actions though; she wasn't going to hold something that had made it easier to fix her up against him. She knew he wouldn't have taken advantage of her either - he was the only one who really seemed to care for her wellbeing.

'It's ok,' she said, stretching out a hand and placing it on his. 'How bad was I?'

'You were pretty roughed up. You can't fight worth a damn.'

Isabelle sighed, 'I'm aware, believe me.'

Sly laughed a little, and made to reply, but was interrupted by the bang of the door as the Joker entered the room. He greasepaint was freshly applied, and Isabelle could see the evidence of it on his fingers. Sly ripped his hand out of hers so fast that it startled her, and he got to his feet.

'Sly,' the Joker said, rolling the name off his tongue like he rolled his knife around his fingers, 'You _have _been busy. You can leave now.'

At this rather abrupt dismissal, Sly left the room, and Isabelle stared after him. She would much rather be alone with Sly than alone with the Joker.

The man in question settled himself on the edge of the mattress, looking down at Isabelle with an interested expression. He continued to look at her. Isabelle stared right back with a look the she hoped conveyed her intense need to punch him in the face. They looked at each other for several minutes until Isabelle patience bid adieu and departed.

'What do you want?' she snapped irritably.

The Joker, looking pleased that he had won the staring contest, said, 'What did you feel when you held that knife?'

Isabelle was taken aback by the question.

'Uh… I felt like I really wanted to stick it in your eye.'

The Joker sniggered.

'And didn't that feel _powerful_?' he pressed.

Isabelle frowned, and sat up, 'I suppose it would have if I actually had a shot of sticking you with it.'

The Joker nodded as if she'd just spouted the most profound and intellectual thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

'It's real power. To hold someone's life in your hands, and then release them from their pathetic, meaningless existence. To watch their eyes thank you for helping them move on from their boring existence.'

His eyes gleamed as he spoke, and the knife in his hand played across his fingers.

'I've always thought real power was being able to walk in heels, but apparently I was wrong,' Isabelle quipped without thinking. There it was. Her fucking foot always lodged in her fucking mouth.

The Joker just grinned at her. Isabelle was sure that she would never get used to the way that his scars distorted what she was sure would otherwise be a pleasant smile. It wasn't as if he was bad looking – he had excellent bone structure, as far as Isabelle could tell under the greasepaint, and his eyes were a pretty shade of brown. Isabelle frowned to herself, realising what she was doing. She couldn't allow herself to humanise this man. In fact, she shouldn't even think of him as a man; he was a murderer, a psychopath, and Arkham Asylum was the best place for him.

'Were you born in Gotham?' he asked suddenly, throwing her out of her reverie.

Isabelle glared at him, 'I don't see how it's any of your fucking – '

She stopped as she felt the cold touch of the knife on her neck.

'You. Will. Answer. Me,' the Joker growled, reaching up with his other hand to grip her hair and expose her throat more fully to him. Isabelle looked up at him with wide eyes, her pulse thundering in her ears and her scalp spiking with pain. She would never get used to his mood swings; it scared her that he was so completely unpredictable.

'Yes! Yes, I was born in Gotham!' she choked out, careful not to move her neck.

'Why haven't your parents been on the _news_? Interviews about their poor, _darling_ little Isabelle?'

Isabelle's eyes narrowed, 'They probably don't even know I'm gone.'

The knife disappeared from her neck, and the Joker drummed his fingers on the mattress.

'Interesting. That's interesting. What happened?'

Isabelle looked at him sharply. She couldn't understand why he cared about her or her family. She was just a way of passing the time for him.

'Well… I love Gotham. I love the atmosphere, and the business, and the danger. My parents didn't like it at all. They moved to Starling City, but I refused to go with them. I guess it started then…'

Isabelle trailed off and looked at her bandaged hands. She didn't want to go through this. Not again. She looked at the ugly knife in the Joker's gloved hand and sighed.

'We kept on good terms for a few years… But then the Scarecrow came along. My parents called me, told me to get out of the city, to come and live with them. I refused. I didn't think any of it would touch me.

'I was living in an apartment in the Narrows at the time – I couldn't afford anywhere else. The fear gas didn't get to me, but as soon as they knew I was alive, they dropped all contact. I don't really understand it, but… I'm sure they don't even know I'm missing.'

'Don't you have any _friends _Bells?' the Joker inquired with an amused tone to his voice.

'You _killed _my only friend,' Isabelle hissed.

'I didn't _kill _whatshisname, I _released _him. Tell me, what did he do? How did he contribute to Gotham?'

Isabelle frowned, 'Well he actually lived in Metropolis. He was the chair of a charity that provided funding for children's homes.'

'And now he's a _martyr. _Splashed all over the papers – the man who sacrificed himself to save others. With all that publicity, donations to his _charity _will be coming left, right, and centre. I did him a _favour_.'

'You didn't do him a favour, you murdered him! He's dead!'

'And think!' the Joker exclaimed, 'All of the kids with dead mummies and daddies who'll be fed for a year because of one measly little death.'

Isabelle, blinking back tears (of anger or sadness, she wasn't sure which), was finding it difficult to refute the Jokers logic. It was true that the publicity from Simon's death would have increased the amount of donations the charity received, but she just didn't think she was ready to accept that there might have been some good in Simon's death.

The Joker's hands were fluttering, twitching even, and his eyes were wide and staring.

'That's the great _lie, _you see. People say that everybody's _life _that has purpose, but they're wrong. It's your _death _that has purpose.'

Isabelle almost had to roll her eyes at the picture the Joker was painting for her. How like a super-villain to think that death was the only way to influence life.

The Joker checked his watch; Isabelle noticed uncomfortably that it, like most of his wardrobe, was spattered in blood.

'Let's go… for a walk,' he said, pulling Isabelle to her feet. She hissed as the cuts on her arms twinged at his rough handling. The Joker noticed her discomfort and smiled widely.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Isabelle was shrugging the leather jacket more snugly around her shivering shoulders as they walked silently through the deserted alleyways of the Narrows. The Joker was walking a little way ahead of her at an annoyingly inconsistent pace that caused her to speed up and slow down like a car in gridlock. It was chilly out on the streets, and now, more than ever, Isabelle _really _wished she had a bra. If the Joker turned around now he would be treated to quite a show. Luckily, he seemed focused on the path ahead, not even looking at his knife as he flipped over and around his gloved fingers.

Isabelle grimaced as her heel caught in her boot. She was wearing the pair that Peyton had died in, and as if that weren't enough, they were about two sizes too large, and no matter how tightly she tied the laces they weren't practical. Not to mention the fact that she wasn't wearing any socks – she had refused to wear the old socks of someone she had played a hand in killing.

_You could do it. You could run._

Isabelle shook the thought out of her head. Even if the boots weren't going to trip her up, she doubted that she could run faster than the Joker could catch her. And when he did she knew she wouldn't enjoy the results. Still, she couldn't help but entertain the notion, before casting it aside. Rescue was her only hope.

_Ok, where the _fuck _is Batman._

Isabelle almost ran into the Joker as he stopped suddenly, head tilted to the side as if he was listening for something. Isabelle followed his example, and her eyes widened, looking off down into a nearby alley for the source of the noise. She could faintly hear a panicked whimpering, and a rhythmic grunting, followed by a cry and a loud slap. Isabelle's eyes widened further as she realised what was happening.

She whirled around to look at the Joker, 'Do something!'

The Joker laughed at her, 'Who am _I _to tell him what to do?'

He paused.

'_You, _however…'

He reached into his purple coat, and pulled out a gun; the same gun, Isabelle realised, that he had used to hit her over the head with at the bank when they first met. He held it out to her, dangling it from his fingers. Hesitantly, Isabelle took it. The Joker bowed his head in a mock salute, and pushed her towards the entrance to the alleyway.

'Every death had purpose,' he reminded her.

Isabelle stepped around the corner cautiously. She eyed the gun in her hand distastefully. She knew her way around a gun – it was practically rite of passage among the people of Gotham – but had never really grew to like them like her gun-toting neighbours did when she'd lived in the Narrows. A scream brought her back to the issue at hand, and she made her way further into the shadows of the alley.

Isabelle felt sick as she looked at the scene in front of her. The woman had clearly been beaten; her face was a bleeding mess, and one of her eyes was swollen completely shut. Her pretty skirt was pushed up around her waist, and Isabelle could see, even from where she was standing, bruises around the woman's hips. She had clearly given up, and was just waiting for the ordeal to be over. The man on top of her looked as if he had been pulled from the greasiest of motel's in the Narrows; a gold chain glinted around his neck as he thrust, and his black trousers were down around his ankles. Isabelle could see his striped socks, and for some reason, this made her uncomfortable – as if it gave the man some humanity, a quirk that gave him some form of personality, of a life outside of this.

Nevertheless, Isabelle aimed the gun at his head.

'Stop.'

The man looked up, saw Isabelle, snorted, saw the gun, and snarled. He pulled out of the woman with a grunt, and looked faintly ridiculous as he grasped for his trousers to pull them up. Before Isabelle could react, however, he pulled a knife out of his pocket, and held it against the woman's throat, who choked with a frightened gasp.

'You put the gun down, little girl,' he snarled at he, grasping his victim by the hair, and pulling her half off of the ground.

Isabelle shook her head, her hands now shaking with the weight of the gun, 'No. Let her go.'

'Why would I do that? What a sweet little cunt she has.'

At the word 'cunt' her pulled her hair sharply, and the poor woman let out a little moan of terror.

'If you don't do it, I'll shoot you!' Isabelle said, hating the quiver in her voice.

'Or,' the man leered, 'you could wait you fucking turn.'

Isabelle advanced one step forward, cocking the gun.

'I will shoot you!' she cried.

_Please, please, don't make me shoot you._ _I don't want to prove him right._

* * *

**A/N: Bit of a cliffy for you there! Please, please, please review! My views for each chapter are going up, but the amount of reviews is decreasing. Reviews mean the world to me, and are extremely motivational! I will get chapters out faster if I think people want them sooner, and I can only tell that if people review. So really it's in your best interest to review! ;)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hello all! Hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoys writing it :)**

* * *

8

The gun wavered as Isabelle's hands shook with nerves and adrenaline. She took another step forward, aiming the gun at the rapist's head.

'You take one more step,' he snarled, 'and I will cut her pretty throat.'

He shook his victim viciously. Isabelle blinked. She didn't know how to deal with this kind of situation. Why the fuck had the Joker thought that shecould handle this? Isabelle could feel perspiration trickling down her forehead, despite the cool weather.

'I will shoot you!' she repeated, almost hysterically.

The man laughed at her, showing his yellowing teeth and blackened gums.

'Darlin', if you were gon' shoot me you would'a done it already,' he cackled. 'Now if you excuse me, I'm gonna get back to my business, and you can wait right there until I'm ready for _you_.'

He stowed the knife back in his pocket and turned away from her. Isabelle was suddenly furious. How _dare _he just assume that he could do this and expect to get away with it? Criminals should _fear _the consequences of their actions! Here she was, a morally upstanding citizen with a _gun, _and this _rapist _didn't care one jot!

Anger clouded Isabelle's vision, and she fired the gun into the wall.

'I am _not _fucking around!' she yelled, and the man turned around, staring at the hole in the wall.

'You crazy fucking bitch!' he screamed, pulling his knife out of his pocket and advancing towards her.

Isabelle once more aimed the gun in his direction. He paused, looking, for the first time, slightly afraid of her.

_And rightly so, _Isabelle thought, a snarl ripping through of her teeth. The Joker was right – _this _was _real_ power.

'You take one more step and I will blow your brains out,' she snarled. The gun was steady in her hand as self-righteous purpose flooded her body.

The man stopped, holding his knife up in surrender. The woman behind him appeared to have passed out from the shock of it all. Isabelle kept her gun trained on him cautiously, suspicious of him giving up so easily. She watched him throw the knife onto the ground, heard it clatter on the dirty concrete. She narrowed her eyes, watching the man's body language. His muscles tensed briefly, and a fraction of a second later he lunged at her, meaty hands going for the gun. Isabelle shrieked as the gun was almost wrenched from her grip, but she held on with a strength she didn't know she possessed. A frantic tug-of-war ensued, both parties grappling for their lives (and, perhaps, their dignity).

The man gave up the gun as a bad job and before Isabelle could react, he had moved behind her, tightening an arm around her throat. He pulled her hair back with his other hand, pulling her flush against him, almost off of the ground.

Isabelle dropped the gun and scrabbled uselessly at the large elbow around her neck. She gulped, trying to draw oxygen into her lungs. Her boots kicked uselessly at his legs. With dawning horror Isabelle realised that her attacker was turned on by her hopeless position – she could feel the bulge of his erection on her thighs. Her hands fell weakly to her side, and she gasped like a startled fish as her vision went spotty. Vaguely she wondered if anybody was coming to save her. Not Batman, certainly; he had proved to be less than useless as a rescuer insofar. Isabelle's vision was reduced to just a tiny circle of light in an otherwise grey field of blindness. Her lungs gave up trying. Her legs hung floppily. Her normally pretty complexion had taken on a remarkable likeness to an overripe blueberry. This was it. This was where her story ended.

_A tragic loss_, Isabelle thought dully as she attempted to hold onto her last vestiges of life.

A wet noise interrupted her oxygen-starved thoughts, and she was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Isabelle lay on the dirty concrete, wheezing like she had done after she'd climbed eleven flights of stairs only to realise that the elevators in her apartment building were, in fact, in perfect working order. Slowly her vision returned to her and she could make out a dark mannish-looking blob on the ground in front of her. Isabelle blinked a few times. The blob slowly morphed into a dead rapist with a knife in his back. Isabelle shrieked and skittered backwards into a pair of legs. She looked up cautiously; it was the Joker. He looked down amusedly at her, his peroxide green hair swinging over to veil his perpetually smiling face.

Isabelle couldn't help but realise that the Joker, as rescuers go, was actually pretty reliable. The first time she had been in danger when he was around, Batman had decided to jump out of a window rather than be in any way helpful to anyone else. Granted, she had been in danger _because _of the Joker, but the point still stood. Since then, the Joker had done nothing but save her life, while the Batman had been about as useful as the nipples on his breastplate. By this point Isabelle was somewhat disillusioned with the famed Batman. He didn't seem to be around when he was needed. The Joker, however, had been the one to save her from the more and more frequently occurring life-threatening situations that she was finding herself in lately (to her increasing displeasure).

Isabelle looked up at the Joker again, somewhat sheepishly. After all, she'd had a gun and had somehow still gotten herself into a position to be strangled.

The Joker crouched down in front of her.

'Every _death _has a _purpose_.'

'And what was his purpose?' she asked hoarsely, nodding towards the man.

The Joker ignored her, becoming distracted as he was by the sudden loud shrieking of the woman he had saved.

'What's the matter?' he asked her, grinning. 'It it the _scars_?'

The poor woman couldn't believe her horrible luck – being rescued from the rapist by the Joker. She suddenly couldn't decide who she'd less like to be with – her attacker, or the man responsible for the death and destruction in her city. She appeared to decide that the best course of action was to remove herself from the situation, and promptly lost consciousness once again.

The Joker nudged her with his boot. She stayed firmly unconscious.

Isabelle massaged her throat and slowly picked herself up off the ground. She couldn't forget the way she'd felt holding the gun, before things had gone pear-shaped. She'd felt the power that the Joker had described. The intensity of the emotion frightened her. The only time she could think of when she'd felt the same way was when she'd told her crotchety next door neighbour, Frank, that no, he couldn't very well open a hole in their adjoining wall to make more space for his porcelain ashtray collection.

The Joker turned to Isabelle.

'You had a _gun, _Bells,' he said, almost curiously.

Isabelle suddenly felt self-conscious.

'Yes,' she said, nodding her head hesitantly.

'Why didn't you _shoot _him? I won't always be around to, uh, _save the day_.'

Isabelle realised that she was still nodding, and stopped. In all honesty, she had expected the man to yield to her higher class of weapon and come peacefully. Come peacefully _where _she hadn't had time to work out before she'd completely lost control of her already tenuous grasp on the situation.

The Joker looked at her, 'This is a _lesson. _In this world, it's _kill or be killed. _Remember that.'

She would.

* * *

It was almost a week later when she collapsed onto the mattress in what she supposed she could now call her bedroom. She rubbed her sore arms tiredly. Training with the Joker had recommenced, and unfortunately it hadn't gotten any easier. She was making progress though; she was starting to fill up Peyton's old suit. It definitely still wasn't what you could call flattering, but she was getting there muscle-wise. All of the cuts from her disastrous first session had become tiny scars littering her upper body - a constant reminder of the Joker and his teaching method.

She was just taking off her boots when she heard a knock at the door, and Sly poked his head in.

'Get ready to leave,' he muttered to her quickly, before taking his own advice and leaving himself.

Isabelle, mid-lace, let out a snort of annoyance and began to retie her boots, which were still frustratingly big on her (apparently her feet hadn't grown with the muscles in her arms and legs).

Standing up took some effort, as her muscles were insisting that no, they would very much like to stay relaxed on the mattress. Willing her rogue limbs into cooperation, she made it to the door, and took a look outside, wondering where on earth they were going that was causing all of this commotion. There were men running up and down the hall dressed, funnily enough, in military uniform. She grabbed hold of Striker as he hurried past carrying a rifle.

'What's going on? Where are we going?' she asked.

Striker was breathing hard from all of the running he had presumably been doing, so she could only make out a few phrases.

'Loeb… Honour Guard… Parade…' was all she understood before he dashed of down the corridor much faster than his burly frame suggested he was capable of doing.

Isabelle shook her head in confusion. Loeb. The Police Commissioner? Why did he have a parade? Then she remembered that they only got a parade when they died. It must have been recent, as she hadn't even heard of it happening. But why did she have to come?

'Bells!'

Isabelle turned and peered into the flurry of moving bodies. Cur came to a panting stop beside her, holding something small out in his hand. She took it curiously. It was a name badge.

'Rachel Dawes,' she murmured, looking at the name inscribed upon it and turning it over in her hand. Why was the name familiar?

'Joker said you have to wear it,' said Cur as he turned to leave. 'And make sure you're at the front!'

Isabelle was nonplussed. She looked at the pin in her hands, and then shrugged. If the Joker wanted her to wear it at this parade, then she would. She had more sense than to refuse him. It wasn't such a big ask, after all.

She pinned it onto the leather collar of her jacket. She made a mental note ask if she could get some shopping in – she was getting sick of wearing Peyton's cast-offs. She headed down the hall in the direction that everybody else seemed to be heading in.

* * *

The ride in the van was uncomfortable. Isabelle had been prepared to get into the back with the rest of the men, but the Joker had hauled her into the passenger seat. She sat there uncomfortably as the van pulled out of the warehouse in which they were holed up. She didn't know what you had to do to earn the passenger seat, but she definitely hadn't done it, and some of the men behind her were looking distinctly disgruntled.

The Joker slammed the door beside her, and she jumped, making him chuckle in his strange way.

The van pulled away from the curb, and Isabelle glanced around surreptitiously, trying to look as though she wasn't glancing around surreptitiously.

_Warehouse Road. Well that seems straight forward enough._

Isabelle wasn't sure whether she'd have an opportunity to make a break for it, but if she did she wanted to be sure she knew where the Joker was staying, so maybe the Batman might actually do his job and pummel him for her. She didn't count on it though – Batman appeared to be more occupied with admiring the menacing shape of his cowl rather than lifting a finger to help her out of her current predicament.

This was, in actuality, staggeringly unfair to Batman, who was at that very moment tearing through the apartment buildings on either side of the parade, whilst simultaneously listing off possible locations that Isabelle could be alive in, or shallow graves that she could be dead in. There was no question though: his cowl _was_ very menacing and he was quite proud of it, and he did spend an inordinate amount of time admiring his fine craftsmanship and excellent taste.

The van had dropped her off at one of the alleyways off the main thoroughfare where the parade for the commissioner was taking place. Evidently, there was some time before the event would start, as there was barely a crowd, and only uniformed officials seemed to be milling about nervously like overzealous parents picking up their children from their first day of school. Isabelle spotted an official-looking podium, and assumed that this was the one she was meant to be in front of. She hadn't even considered disobeying the Joker – she assumed (correctly) that he would be keeping a close eye on her, and any move of hers to make a break for it was going to end in tears. Isabelle made her way to the railing in front of the stage and leant against it casually, trying to look like she wasn't part of an elaborate criminal scheme. It seemed to work, as no one paid much attention to her. They were probably too busy trying to stop an elaborate criminal scheme.

Isabelle cast an eye over the suited men standing on the stage next to her. The Mayor was, as always, looking like a man much too young to be in such a high-paying position, and as if he should leave the politics to the big boys who threw their weight around without accomplishing anything much. Standing next to him was a man Isabelle recognised, with some anger, as Harvey Dent. Where the hell was Dent when the Joker crashed his fundraiser? Honestly, he hadn't even come to his girlfriend's rescue! Another useless knight of Gotham. Next, Isabelle saw Gordon, the nice man who had interviewed her in the hospital.

She accidently caught his eye as he scanned the crowd, and she dropped her head, simultaneously hoping that he had and hadn't recognised her. It appeared he had, as she heard him say: 'My God! It's the girl the Joker took!', and then some hurried movements of the policemen around him.

Isabelle winced. She wasn't sure whether this was part of the plan or not. She supposed it was, or else why would the Joker want her up the front?

She allowed herself to be steered around the side of the stage by some flustered policemen who clearly had more important things to do than steering girls around the sides of stages. Dent and Gordon were waiting for her.

'Hello?' said Isabelle awkwardly.

'Miss Richards!' exclaimed Gordon, looking at her excitedly, but also nervously, as if he had just received an email telling him that he'd won ten million dollars and all he had to do was enter all of his credit card details.

Dent just looked stunned.

Isabelle realised she probably explain what was going on (even though she wasn't sure herself what the Jokers plan was). She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out she was cut off by Dent pointing at her chest and shrieking manfully.

'Rachel!' he gasped.

Isabelle looked at him indignantly and was about to tell him that her name was actually Isabelle, when she finally remembered who Rachel Dawes was – Dent's girlfriend. She looked down at the badge, unsure what it meant and how she should react.

'He's targeting Rachel next!' Dent said angrily to Gordon, shooting a glare in Isabelle's direction, who thought that it was a tad unfair. After all, she hadn't asked for this, had she? And it was at his bloody fundraiser that she'd gotten kidnapped! In all fairness, she should be the one glaring at him. She allowed herself one small glare at Dent before she decided she was being childish and stopped.

Gordon was looking at her in a fatherly sort of way.

'We will talk about how you came to be here when you're rested, alright Miss Richards?' he said kindly, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder.

Isabelle nodded, but still couldn't help but feel that there was going to be some sort of catch. The Joker knew this was going to happen. Therefore, anything that happened next was also by design. Isabelle sighed, and decided that she would just go with the tide. She allowed herself to be hurried to a police car, and was bundled into the back behind two officers.

'You are going to be taken to Gotham General for a check-up,' Gordon told her, before hurrying away. The policeman in the passenger turned around and grinned at her. Isabelle grinned back, aware of the way the scar on her cheek warped her smile. The officer didn't mind though. He continued to grin. It was starting to get a little weird, actually. Isabelle stopped grinning, and instead looked confused and slightly concerned.

The car pulled way from the gutter, and behind them Isabelle saw a second police car peel away from the curb to follow them. Four policemen. All to take her to hospital? Isabelle decided not to worry – it made sense that she was given an escort, seeing as the Joker was sure to be on the hunt for her. She closed her eyes, resolving not to open them again until they arrived at the hospital.

* * *

Isabelle felt the car roll to a stop. She sighed, opening her eyes slowly. She'd been having a delightful daydream where she hadn't spent the last month in the care of a homicidal psychopath and his merry band of goons. As she became fully aware of her surroundings, Isabelle looked around in confusion. This wasn't Gotham General.

Her door opened, and the grinning policeman pulled her roughly from the car, dumping her unceremoniously on the hard concrete of the sidewalk.

'What the fuck?' she said loudly, trying to get her bearings. To her dawning annoyance she realised that they had parked right outside the warehouse she thought she'd just escaped from.

'I should have known it was too good to be true,' she groaned, putting her head in her hands. Honestly, the ineptness of Gotham's so-called finest was astonishing. Could they not even hire men who weren't under the employ of the Joker? It was getting ridiculous how many times Isabelle had been let down by the good guys.

The policemen-who-weren't-policemen gathered around her. She looked up at them.

'Hi,' she said, getting up, 'I'm Bells.'

* * *

**A/N: Well there it is, chapter 8. Hope you all enjoyed it. I think it's interesting how much my writing style has changed since chapter 1. Changed for the better I hope :)  
Again, please please please review. It means the world to me, and I really would like some feedback. Do you like Isabelle's character? Am I doing the Joker right? Do you like where the story is going? These are questions I'd love to hear answered :)  
Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

Warning: attempted non-consexual sex in this chapter. If you don't want to read it, skip the middle section (between the second and third grey lines).

* * *

9

'Shit! I am so sorry!' Isabelle cried, running over to Sly. He grimaced as he popped his dislocated shoulder back into position.

'Déjà vu, hey Bells,' he said, grinning. Isabelle grinned back, remembering their first meeting.

Sessions with the Joker had been progressing surprisingly well, and she had moved onto knife fights with some of the crew. Today it had been her and Sly in the makeshift ring, and apparently what the Joker had been saying about using her opponents weight against them had been correct. She was also pleased to see that she finally fit into Peyton's bodysuit. She felt strong. She felt fast. She felt healthier than she had felt in a long time.

She felt guilty for feeling good.

It was difficult to admit to herself that she actually had a good thing going, despite the crime and danger and constant braless-ness. She had more friends here than she'd had in Gotham – her best friend had lived in Metropolis, and was now as dead as a doornail (although Isabelle still wasn't sure why a doornail was considered more dead than a regular nail). Here she at least had constant companionship and regular exercise – even if the exercise was slightly life threatening.

Sly and Isabelle made their way to the kitchen (now well stocked with edible food as per Isabelle's temper tantrum). Sly passed her a can of beer, and she cracked it open, sighing as she took a long swig.

'I never thanked you, you know,' said Sly, sitting down at the table.

'For what?'

'Getting rid of Slick,' he replied, and Isabelle frowned, confused.

'Who's Slick?' she asked, wiping the condensation off the side of her can with a finger.

'You know… That rape scenario the boss set up. I think it was just an easy way for the boss to get rid of him, you know? He was a real whiner.'

Isabelle sat frozen, trying to process what Sly was saying and not really succeeding.

'That man… That was a set up?' she asked, clenching her fist tight on the tabletop.

Sly looked confused, 'Well, yes. I thought you knew.'

'So… It wasn't real? Hang on, was she in on it too?'

'Hell yes it was real. Slick was a convicted rapist and murderer when the Joker brought him in. She was just a random woman he found on the street.'

Isabelle felt cold. She'd been played, and a woman had been raped, all because the Joker wanted to teach her a lesson!

Isabelle stood up, knocking her chair over in the process. Sly started at the loud clatter.

'That's it,' she hissed. 'That _fucker_.'

'Bells… What are you doing?' Sly asked in alarm.

'Time for a chat,' Isabelle said coldly.

She stormed out of the room and down the corridor. She passed the men the Joker had hired to be policemen as they muttered furtively, eyeing her as she flew by them.

Stopping at what she knew to be the Joker's office, she paused, wondering whether she should knock, or whether she was too angry to knock. Isabelle decided that she was too angry to knock, so she stormed in.

The room was sparse, furnished only by a mattress in a corner and a large desk directly in the middle, covered in papers and blueprints and tins of greasepaint. The Joker sat hunched over the desk, and he looked up slowly as Isabelle entered. She paused at the threshold, suddenly feeling nervous and regretting her reckless entrance almost as much as she regretted the surprise-party-dancing-on-tables fiasco.

'Bells,' the Joker said, drawing out the _s_, and Isabelle shivered at the hardness in his tone.

'I wanted to… talk to you,' Isabelle said, suddenly feeling foolish and out of her depth (both of which she was).

The Joker grinned at her, 'What a _lovely _surprise.'

Isabelle decided to throw caution to the winds, and stepped up to the desk.

'A woman was _raped _because of me! What makes you think you have the _right_? How dare you –'

She was cut off as the Joker leaned across the desk and grabbed her by the throat, his fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her half over the desk.

'How _dare _I?' he hissed quietly.

Isabelle let out a frightened squeak in response, fingers scrabbling at his hand.

'You have _no _say,' he said, pulling her almost nose-to-nose with him, 'in _anything_. This is _my _show, this is _my _city, and _you are mine_. Do you understand me?'

Isabelle nodded with difficulty, and he released her, gasping, against the desk. Isabelle's hand went to her throat, and she breathed in, savouring the air.

'I'm sorry,' she rasped, bracing herself against the desk.

'What's one measly little rape next to the death of a rapist? He's off the streets. Tell me, _Bells_, have I not done Gotham a _service_?'

His twisted logic was making Isabelle's head hurt. She didn't understand how he could say such cruel things but still make sense. It was true; Slick was no longer prowling the streets for innocent woman to molest. It just pained her to the core that a woman had been treated so appallingly just so the Joker could teach her a lesson.

'I'm _helping _Gotham,' the Joker said, 'and you will help me.'

Isabelle just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak lest she insert her foot into her mouth again.

'What did I say about _death, _Bells?'

'Every death has a purpose.'

'_Every death has a purpose_. The people of Gotham; they're _sheep_. They flock from one pointless thing to the next, and the only time they have any impact on anyone else is when they _die. _Think of Loeb. Nobody in this city _cared _who he was or what he did, but as soon as he died they all came milling to his little parade singing _praises_. His death had more impact than his entire _life_.'

Isabelle listened in mute silence, trying to find a flaw in his logic but finding none. She supposed it was true: what he had said about Simon and his charity, Loeb, Slick. All of their deaths had had more impact than their lives. Subconsciously, she reached up and stroked the scar that marred her cheek. If this was his way of thinking, it was almost an honour that the Joker hadn't killed her. He must believe that her life was important, that _she _was important – that she had purpose.

'What is _your_ purpose?' she asked, looking over the plans and blueprints that were scattered across the table.

The Joker looked up at her, his tongue flicking out to lick his scars, 'If they're sheep, then I'm their shepherd.'

'And what am I?'

'_Mine_.'

* * *

Isabelle sat on the edge of her mattress, gnawing a fingernail. She looked down at the cracked concrete beneath her booted feet, her mind lost in thought. Her mind wasn't the only thing that was lost; she had also lost her sense of security. The security that no matter what transpired, she still had the moral high ground over the Joker. Now that was gone. She was prepared to shoot that man – she was prepared to be a murderer. And being prepared to be a murderer is almost as bad as actually being one, in her books.

Isabelle was scared of how much she enjoyed holding that gun. Its weight in her hand was so solid, comforting almost. It felt powerful, and she felt powerful with it. She wanted to feel that power again, and she wasn't sure how far she would go in order to get it.

Isabelle sighed and leant back on the mattress, closing her eyes and resolving to get a grip on her life some time in the near future.

Isabelle woke with a start, hearing her door creak open slowly. The blackness in the room was absolute – there was no window or lamp to dispel the shadows. She sat up on the mattress straining her ears to hear even a tiny sound. She heard the scuff of a shoe and her heartbeat quickened, rapping out a quick staccato in her chest.

'Hello?' she quavered, hating how high her voice was.

Suddenly torchlight flashed into her eyes and she cried out, putting a hand over her face as she rapidly teared up from the brightness. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and she looked up, still blinking, into the faces of the four policemen on the Joker's payroll. She supposed they weren't policemen anymore, and were now a permanent part of the Joker's crew.

'What is this?' Isabelle demanded harshly.

The man who appeared to be their leader squatted down in front of her, running his eyes up and down her body lazily.

'I am Marko,' he introduced himself, an Italian lilt to his rough words, 'and this is Benny, Pete, and Carlos.'

He gestured to each of them in turn. Isabelle glanced at them, took in the strength in their bodies, the hardness in their eyes, and their weapons slung around their hips.

Isabelle's fingers curled into fists, 'What are you doing here?'

'My boys are new to this establishment. We are used to Metropolis and our ring there – we are here on a loan, I suppose you would say.'

As he spoke, Marko's finger trailed along the rounded edge of the mattress, tracing out the swirling patterns in the fabric. He brushed a line up her thigh and Isabelle tensed. She wished she had something to cover herself, clad as she was in a tank top and tracksuit pants. Even a sheet would have been better than being out in the open under the hungry eyes of these Italians.

Marko continued.

'We are used to certain bonuses; bonuses we have not yet found here. My boys and I have found ourselves… wanting.'

Isabelle grew cold and goose bumps prickled on her bare arms. She drew them around her chest defensively.

'You can't,' she breathed. 'The Joker!'

'The clown does not bother us,' Marko responded, blowing off her only chance of escaping. 'You however… you are prettier than many, and we have decided that this is our bonus.'

He captured her chin in his calloused hand. Isabelle glared at him through narrowed eyes and pulled his hand away. He caught her wrist and pulled her closer to him.

She spat in his face.

Marko backhanded her across the cheek and tears of pain filled Isabelle's eyes, blurring her vision. She shrieked as Benny caught her wrists and dragged her off of the mattress and onto the cold cement floor.

'Get the fuck off of me!' she yelled, and prepared to scream bloody murder. She was cut off as a gag was pulled across her mouth and tied behind her head. Marko pulled off his belt silently and handed it to Benny, who tightened it around her wrists. Isabelle thrashed and kicked out, her teeth biting furiously into the gag, but Pete and Carlos caught one leg each and pinned her to the floor. Benny held her wrists, and Isabelle found herself immobile and helpless.

Marko leant over her, putting one hand on her breast. Isabelle shuddered as he squeezed appreciatively.

He whispered in her ear.

'I am going to have you. And then so will my boys. You are the Joker's whore, and you will be treated like it.'

Isabelle stared up at him, and whimpered. She knew that he was deadly serious.

Marko turned to the men holding her down.

'Take off her clothes.'

Isabelle screamed through the gag, kicking and thrashing. Marko grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head off the floor, pulling so tightly that any move she made sent hot tendrils of pain rippling into her scalp. Carlos gripped her ankles tightly as Pete took hold of the waistband of her tracksuit. Isabelle felt a fresh wave of tears trickle down her cheek as he slowly peeled off the pants, revealing her plain black underwear. Marko observed her long legs and released her hair, letting her head thump into the concrete. She saw his eyes follow her legs up to her torso and settle on her breasts.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut as he lightly touched her nipple through the fabric of her tank top. In a swift movement, he tore the fabric navel to neck and across one of the arms, picking it up and throwing it aside. Isabelle gave an involuntary shiver as the cold air hit her exposed breasts. Her thrashing renewed, almost throwing off the men who held her legs. Isabelle cried out as Marko hit her harshly on the breast, sending spikes of pain across her chest.

'Lie still,' he hissed in her ear. 'Or things will be worse for you.'

Isabelle glared up at him, and Marko clucked his tongue as if she'd amused him, before turning to survey her almost naked body with unbridled desire, pausing on the many scars that littered her skin. Isabelle saw with disgust that the front of his trousers had grown tight. He fingered the hem of her underwear, and Isabelle froze. She thought she was going to be sick as he drew them slowly down her tense legs, and Isabelle pressed her thighs together in a useless attempt to impede his progress. Her underwear joined her pants on the floor, baring her completely to the four Italians. Isabelle whimpered again and pulled weakly on the man that held her bound arms.

_Every death has a fucking purpose, _she thought furiously to herself as her nails dug into her palms. Isabelle eyed the guns that were hung on their belts. If she could just get to one… She pulled at the tight leather encasing her wrists experimentally and Benny tightened his hold on her arms.

A rasp of fabric distracted Isabelle and she turned to see Marko pulling down his trousers, his gun belt swinging before hitting the cement with a _clunk_. Isabelle looked at the weapon now sitting next to her hip, the smidgeon of a plan forming in her mind. In actuality, it was a rubbish plan, as while she knew what the end goal was (four dead Italians), she hadn't actually worked out the middle and most important bit (actually getting the gun). She figured improvisation was key.

Marko lowered himself over her, and she felt Benny loosen his grip on her wrists in his excitement. She reacted. Wrenching her hands out of Benny's grip, she vaulted her head forward and her forehead hit Marko in the temple. His elbows lost their strength, and he folded onto her. Isabelle reached for the gun that still sat beside her hip, and her fingers closed around the cool metal. Flicking off the safety, Isabelle rolled out from underneath Marko, Pete and Carlos too surprised to maintain their grip on her legs. Wrists still bound and the gag still in place, Isabelle got to her feet with difficulty, putting the wall behind her and the men in her sight. She raised the gun to Marko who was stirring feebly on the floor.

Isabelle felt the sense of power she had been craving. It coursed through her body, adrenaline and arousal, and she felt her nipples stiffen in response. She stepped closer to Marko and shot him in the head. His body jerked, and then lay still, a pretty pool of blood forming a halo beneath his greasy hair. Isabelle smiled savagely through the coarse gag. Benny, Pete and Carlos seemed to be in shock, and Isabelle shot all three before they could reach for their own weapons. They looked to Isabelle like marionettes with their strings cut, the way they crumpled to the floor.

From the door she heard slow clapping.

* * *

It was not the first gunshot that woke the Joker from his light nap, nor was it the raised voices. It had been the scuffing of shoes in the corridor outside his door that had wakened him. The Joker prided himself on being alert and ready to react even in sleep.

Unfolding himself from the hard wooden desk chair upon which he had dozed, he went to the door and opened it slowly. He saw, even in the darkness, four men turn the corner.

_Ah. The Italians. _

He knew he would have trouble with them when he hired them. But he also relished the discord that they brought. It kept his men on their toes, having new faces, having his favour on someone else. They worked smarter, faster, _better_ when they thought that a misstep would shorten their lifespan. They were right_, _of course. Hiring new men showed them just how easily they could be replaced.

He followed behind the men, curious about what they were doing. They stopped outside Isabelle's door.

_They're after their bonus. Curiouser and curiouser._

The Joker stood well back as the men entered the room, and the only sound he made was the _snick snick _of his knife as he flicked it across the leather of his glove. His keen ears heard raised voices and, once, his name. The Joker thought it funny that Bells had used his name as a bargaining chip. It seemed that she had accepted her place here. He moved closer to the door, stopping in the darkness of the threshold. Bells was stretched out between three of the Italians, leather encasing her wrists and a gag across her mouth. The leader - Marko, he remembered - was touching her breast, and the Joker saw Isabelle recoil in disgust. Marko whispered something into Bells' ear, and her eyes widened. The Joker wondered what had been said.

The _snick snick _of the knife on leather got a little faster.

Marko instructed his men to relieve Bells of her clothing, and she began to thrash around, causing the Joker to chuckle softly. Soon she was naked, and the scars littering her body caused a slight twinge in the Joker, which he ignored. Sex for him was not necessary, but he found it a useful manipulator. Peyton had been easy to manipulate. He wondered if that was the angle he should take with Bells.

Marko was taking off his trousers, and the Joker watched with interest, seeing Bells fixate on the gun left beside her.

He saw the man holding her arms make a mistake, and Bells took the opportunity to slam her head into Marko's, and grab the gun.

He saw her nipples stiffen and her pupils dilate when she raised the gun, and he cocked his head to the side in interest.

The Joker could appreciate a woman, even if he had no interest in her. But seeing Bells bound and gagged, naked and aroused, a gun in her hand and intensity in her eyes, he decided that she would break easier if she thought that he was romantically interested in her, and it wouldn't be a sacrifice for him. It would be fun to bring this one down, to show Gotham and Gordon and _Batman _how close to insanity they all actually were.

He didn't even flinch when the _bang bang bang bang _of the gunshots ripped through the room.

The Joker clapped.


	10. Chapter 10

**I am SO SO sorry with how long this has taken me. Some of you would remember that I mentioned I am in my final year of school, and let me tell you, it is HECTIC. I am now into the first few days of my holidays and have been writing furiously to get this out as quickly as possible. If you ever want to know where I am on a story if it's been a while since an update, I often post on my profile saying if I'm halfway through/unable to write etc etc, so check that if it has been a while since I updated. That being said, enjoy :)**

* * *

10

Bells was breathing heavily and looking at the bodies slumped around her, feeling cold. Her ears were ringing from the blast of the gunshots, and the leftover adrenaline in her system caused her hands to shake. She turned slowly and saw the Joker in the doorway, the purple leather of his gloves distorting the sharp sound of his clapping. His clothes were rumpled, as if he'd been sleeping. Bells' eyes narrowed, and, holding the gun in one hand, she tore of the gag with the other.

'You were there the whole time?!' she snarled, swinging the gun up to point it at him. The Joker grinned at her.

'You didn't need my help. You did _so _well on your own,' he said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Bells looked down at the gun in her hands, and lowered it. She _had _done well. She'd been bound and gagged but still had managed to kill all four of her attackers. A savage grin came over her face and the Joker noted it curiously, cocking his head to the side. He crossed the room, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket as he did so, and came to a stop in front of her. Bells saw his gaze slide leisurely down her naked body, but she didn't blush or try to hide. There was no need for that; there was no shame in nakedness, she decided now. It pleased her that the Joker seemed to find her desirable. He cut through the binding on her wrists, the shape blade sliding through the leather like butter, and Isabelle worked feeling back into her fingers. There was a small spatter of blood on her thigh, and she looked at it cautiously, waiting for the nausea to hit. She didn't feel sick, even with the metallic scent of the blood as it permeated the air. She felt calm. She knew logically what she had done, but couldn't feel any of what she knew any sane person _would _be feeling. Bells felt… victorious. There was no other way of putting it. She admitted to herself that if this was ever taken to court (she seriously doubted it) she could file for self-defence.

Bells frowned. There was no guilt. Perhaps she had just become accustomed to the violent way of life she had found herself in. It wasn't a bad thing really. After all, that's all evolution was; adapting to ones surroundings. She was adapting, so what? In this way of life, you adapt or you die. Bells eyed the bodies lying haphazardly on the floor. Weak, that's what they were. It was natural selection at play, weeding the weak from the herd.

'Weak,' Bells said out loud, voicing the thought.

The Joker looked at the men.

'Yes,' he agreed. 'Sheep flocking to their shepherd.'

He grinned suddenly, manically, and Bells grinned back, showing all of her teeth.

'I'm Bo Peep,' she giggled.

He tilted his head to the side, as if amused, and motioned her to follow. Bells dropped the gun to the floor with a metallic _thunk_. Stepping over her ruined clothes – she had no need of them now – she followed him out of the doorway. She couldn't help but notice the way in which his peroxide hair caressed the back of his neck. She longed to touch it, to pull it, to twist it in her fingers. Bells restrained herself from reaching out. She wasn't _crazy_, after all.

They were walking down the hallway when the first of the men cautiously looked out of the door of the living room, wakened by the gunshots. Bells revelled in the widened eyes as they took in her naked, blood splattered form. She flashed a wink to Sly, who was unable to keep his eyes off her breasts as she walked past him.

'Nice lookin' Bells!' called one of the men, Cur, she thought, from the doorway. Bells barely had time to smirk at him before the Joker flew around, knocking her against the wall in the process, drew a knife and slit Cur's throat. Bells bit back a yelp, and looked in fascination as blood spurted out of the thin cut, pulsing with his fading heartbeat. Cur's knees hit the floor, and he fell face forward onto the cement floor, his blood pooling and nibbling at Bells' toes. She dipped her big toe in cautiously, noting its warmth. She had never seen the Joker react in that way before, defensively, as if he was… protective? Of her? She looked up, and met his gaze. His eyes were narrowed, and his breathing was heavy. Was it her having making him have his reaction?

Without a word, he pushed past her, strode into his office, slamming the door behind him. Bells looked after him, deep in thought. Was it possible? Absent-mindedly, she reached up to touch the scar that marred the side of her face, and then her lips.

* * *

'Ow!' Bells protested, pushing Sly away. The box of bandages he had been holding skittered onto the floor, and he looked at it with an amused sigh.

'Let me see it,' he said gently, pushing up her bloodied sleeve. A long cut marred her from shoulder to elbow – another one of the Joker's gifts in training. It oozed blood, and Bells followed its progress down her forearm with an interested murmur. Sly retrieved the roll of bandage and began wrapping it carefully up her arm, Bells deep in thought. The Joker was often on her mind nowadays. In the time before him, Bells would never have admitted her crush to Simon. Now, though, how could she think it was shameful to have sexual desire? She had seen sexual desire in many forms since her capture; there was nothing wrong about it. Bells was perfectly comfortable to admit her desire for the Joker… And perhaps he desired her? His actions the past few days seemed to demonstrate this. In training that day he had been harsh; harsher than he had been in a while, and moved with recklessness about him that seemed all the more dangerous. Bells had even managed to get a cut in, plunging the little knife into the web between his thumb and finger while he was distracted. That worried her, though. The Joker was never distracted. He went about his work with a single-minded determination that was at times frightening. He didn't get _distracted_. And what was he distracted by? Bells couldn't help but notice that it was her breasts he was looking at before she landed the knife. He had given a little start, and slowly pulled the knife out, looking at her all the time. She was so confused with his nonchalant reaction that she didn't realise when his hand whipped out, and she didn't have time to react when he cut a vicious line up her arm, their blood intermingling in her wound. He threw the knife down at her feet and stalked out of the room, while Sly ran to get medical supplies.

Sly. Now he was obvious. He did nothing to hide his feelings for her. Bells often caught him looking at her, and she found she quite enjoyed it. He was easier then the Joker. The Joker was a dangerous man to desire. One could never quite figure him out. Bells looked at Sly, carefully tying off the end of the bandage, the concentration on his face so endearing. Perhaps?

Anything to get her mind off the Joker.

Forgetting the deep cut on her arm, Bells drew herself up to Sly, looking into his flecked brown eyes. He blinked uncertainly as she trailed her hand up his arm.

'Bells,' he croaked, his voice raspy, 'What…'

'Shh,' she whispered into his ear, enjoying the way it made him shiver. She could feel the control she craved; it was pleasing to realise that she could control as well with her body as with a gun.

'I've seen you looking at me,' she said, wrapping one hand into his long hair, briefly imagining it was the Joker's.

_Snap out of it._

Bells could hear Sly's breath quickening, and she felt her own pulse quickening in return. This was safer, she decided. Sly was safer. She could pretend he was the Joker. This was the safe course.

Safe.

Before she could think any further, Bells pressed her lips to Sly's. He responded immediately, drawing her legs over his hips. Straddling him, she plunged her tongue into his mouth, coiling her fingers further into his hair. She could feel his erection through her tight jeans, and she ground into him, making him groan in pleasure. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts into his chest, and she gasped as his hands found her hair, pulling down hard and exposing her neck. His lips left hers and she cried out in loss, but he found her neck and she panted in pleasure at his expertise, sucking behind her ear and sending sparks of pleasure into her core. Her nerves endings were on fire, and her fingertips were tingling as she gripped the hem of his shirt, and drew it up, breaking contact to get it over his head and onto the cement floor. She splayed her fingers on her chest, marvelling at its strength. Momentarily, she wondered if the Joker was scarred on _his_ chest.

_Snap out of it._

Bells felt Sly's fingers struggling at the hem of her shirt, and she drew it up, pulling it over her head and throwing it to the floor. Immediately she could feel his hands at her waist, stroking gently, sending shivers up her spine. She hungrily pressed her mouth to his again, wondering what her scar felt like to him, and wondering what the Joker's scars would feel like if she kissed him.

_For fucks sake, snap out of it. _

Bells pressed herself more firmly against Sly, her breasts against his chest. She could feel him grin into her teeth, and she smiled back, pulling him closer. Sly stiffened and coughed into her mouth. Bells drew back, repulsed, and opened her mouth to speak when she saw the blood bubble from his lips, his eyes large and blank, his hands scrabbling at his neck. Her eyes widened, and she wiped a hand across her mouth, blanching when the back of her hand came up red. Sly slowly slipped forward, his greasy hair falling to the side to reveal a knife buried in the back of his neck.

'Fuck!' she yelped, scrambling out of his embrace, and Sly's body fell with a _thud _onto the concrete floor.

Bells spat the blood out of her mouth, and slowly looked up. The Joker stood silhouetted in the doorway, breathing heavily. She slowly got to her feet.

'What the _fuck _do you think you're doing?!' she hissed, clenching her fists and taking a step forward without realising.

The Joker looked at her coldly, 'I _thought_ I made it quite clear that you belong to _me_.'

'But… But you killed him!' she whispered, gesturing hopelessly at Sly's body sprawled out on the ground.

'Like I said. _You_ _belong to me,_' the Joker hissed, taking a step into the room. Bells involuntarily stepped backwards, almost stumbling over Sly.

'He was the only friend I had here,' Bells said quietly, looking down at him.

'And just look what you did to him,' the Joker said maliciously, grinning at her.

'_What I did?!_' Bells shrieked, 'that was _you, _you sick fuck! _You _killed him, you _freak_!'

She stopped, her eyes widening as she realised what she had said.

_He doesn't like being called a freak._

The Joker growled, and with a speed that continued to surprise her, he crossed the room and had her by the arm in a matter of seconds, wrenching her close. They were nose to nose, and Bells could see each individual eyelash, dirty with back greasepaint.

'You don't seem to be able to _remember _simple lessons,' he whispered, and Bells could feel his breath on her lips. Holding her arm in one hand, he grasped her hair with the other and wrenched downwards, exposing her neck to him.

'I'm sorry,' Bells croaked, scrabbling at his hand uselessly. The Joker said nothing, his tongue flicking out to lick his scars. He looked at her neck, noting the taut tendons and her gasping breaths. He could see the uneven criss-crossing of scars, the old fading reminders, and the new red and puffy lessons. The Joker could see her chest heaving, unused to the restrained position, and her peaked nipples, still aroused. Moving lower, he could see the new, barely there abdominal muscles; the result of the training he had put her through. These too were crossed with cuts, some scabbing and some still leaking blood. He had done well with her. The Joker paused in his survey. She had to be taught that she was not free to be with whomever she wanted; she was _his _and no-one else. He couldn't allow anyone else to touch her – not because _he _wanted her, but because she was his property, and he didn't let anybody touch his property. The Joker looked at the cooling body on the floor, sprawled clumsily on the ground, his favourite knife protruding from the back of the neck. He allowed himself a moment of annoyance at the loss of his most competent crew-member, but quickly the annoyance gave way to derision. Sly was the one at fault here. _Bells _was the one at fault for believing that she could forget about him by being with somebody else. He knew that that was what this was – she had no feelings for Sly at all. She had been trying to cover up her feelings for _him_. The Joker had been careful in her treatment of her lately, feigning attachment to her by killing the crew-member – Cur, he thought – when he made a lewd remark. He watched as Bells looked at him in a new light, believing that it was jealousy that drew the knife and slew the man, not a larger scheme, not a larger purpose, not showing _Gotham _how _weak _they all truly were. She was easy to manipulate, this one, she was easy to _mould_. The Joker had already seen her, looking at the gun in her hands, feeling the _power _that he'd taught her to feel. In a few short months he had taken her, a weak, _pathetic _whimpering girl, and broken her to reign. It had been easy, _easy_ to show her his way, and for her to embrace it. Bells had barely even flinched when he cut Cur's throat, although Sly appeared to be a different matter. The Joker looked at the body again, wondering why Sly thought that he could touch what was his. Was it not _clear _enough? She needed a marker, to show that _only he could touch her. _

Bells' breaths were coming in gasps, her air-passage half closed off, as the Joker looked her over. What was he doing? What was he waiting for? She saw him glance over at Sly's body, and she closed her eyes, a single tear escaping. It _was _her fault he was dead – she might as well have thrown the knife herself. She had to commend the Joker for his accuracy; the knife was buried directly in the centre of his neck. She pressed her eyes more tightly shut, watching the colours dance across her eyelids. Her hands dropped to her sides. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps she'd finally pushed him too far.

She opened her eyes to see the Joker watching her, cocking his head to the side in the curious way that he had. He looked at her exposed neck and grinned, his teeth startlingly yellow against the red of the greasepaint that he wore. He dipped his head downwards, and Bells shivered as she felt his breath against the juncture between her neck and shoulder. He trailed his tongue up to her earlobe, giggling as he did it, retracing Sly's steps. Bells tried to cringe away, but he was clutching her hair tight, and with his other gloved hand he gripped her close, pressing her chest against his. His vest was coarse against her nipples, and Bells felt them harden into peaks, and she wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or pleased that she was aroused. The Joker grinned into her shoulder as, without realising, Bells pressed herself closer to him, closing her eyes.

_She. Is. Mine. _

Bells' eyes flew open and she shrieked as the Joker buried his teeth into her shoulder. She struggled furiously, trying to ignore the white-hot pain that was shooting up her neck and down her arm, whimpering all the while. She felt him break the skin, and she gave a groan, falling limp with tears blurring her vision. The pain was immense, and it was all she could think about, and it was all that she could feel, and, as she squeezed her eyes shut, it was all that she could see; the black and the red and the white, the ghoulish face that laughed at her while she screamed.

The teeth finally withdrew, and Bells hung limply in the Joker's hold. She could feel blood running down her shoulder and dripping down her breast, warm and wet. Bells opened her eyes slowly, still hazy with pain, tears welling up. The Joker was looking at his creation on her shoulder, and Bells shuddered to see her blood on his lips and smeared across his mouth and his scars. Slowly she looked down at her shoulder, wincing with pain as she moved. It was a bloody mess of ripped skin and teeth marks, smeared with red and white greasepaint. Bells felt fresh tears well up, and she let out a sob.

The Joker heard her, and looked up grinning, his normally yellow teeth red.

'Hey, hey, _hey_,' he said, giggling. 'That didn't _hurt_ did it?'

'Fuck you,' she whispered, her head falling limply to the side as he released his hold on her hair.

He put a leather gloved finger to her lips, 'No need to be _rude_, Bells. Now everybody knows, don't you see? _Nobody else can touch you_.'

Bells frowned, trying to block out the throbbing of her shoulder. They were still close enough that she could hear the Joker's breathing and smell her blood on his lips. Was that what this was about? Was he… _claiming _her? That didn't make sense, though. Hadn't he already done that with the scar on her cheek? That was a marker, wasn't it? That she was his? Perhaps this was different, a different mark for a different warning. Her eyes drifted to Sly's corpse, staining the air with the metallic scent of blood. _'You belong to me_', the Joker had said, but clearly she hadn't grasped at his full meaning. She belonged to him, her body belonged to him. Bells looked at the Joker, understanding dawning. This was his way of telling the world that she was his, in every way. He desired her, she realised. _He desired her_. Bells forgot the pain in her shoulder, the pain in her wrist as he crushed it in his strong fingers. Her mouth falling open, she looked up at the Joker, who was watching her oddly with a slight smile, looking as though some plan of his had fallen into place.

It had.

* * *

Bruce Wayne paced across the marble floors of his pent-house, his footsteps ringing across the room and echoing off the walls. He ignored Alfred's gentle but insistent knocks on the door. Finally, he collapsed down onto his bed, ruffling the crisp newsheets. He hadn't slept there for days, occupied as he was. Bruce heard Alfred walking away, presumably to bed. He ran tired hands through his hair, trying to ignore the sound of Rachel turning over in bed the next room over.

Too much, too many things to think about. Harvey Dent, leaving Schiff's life up to chance like that. Disappointing, so disappointing - Dent was Gotham's only hope, and there he was, acting the criminal. Then there was Gordon, one of the only men to know his real identity, one of the only men not to care who was behind the mask, one of the only men to _believe _in what Bruce was doing. Now he was gone, another dead body, another pawn in the Joker's game. And Isabelle Richards. She had never turned up at the hospital. The poor girl was probably traumatised, maybe dead, and there was nothing, _nothing_, Bruce could do about it. He had been all over the Narrow's in his limited free time, but he was one man and the Narrows was large.

Bruce held his head in his hands.

He was failing.

* * *

**There you go, people, hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think, reviews really make me write faster, and I love hearing everybody's thoughts :) Seriously, review, review, review x**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello people! Again, so sorry that it took so long to get this out. It sounds like a lame excuse but school is still really crazy, especially my school which is quite competitive. I've also been quite sick, which means I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! They really keep me going, especially the longer ones that really analyse the story. Keep them coming!  
Thanks so much to everyone who keeps coming back despite how long it takes me to upload, it really means a lot to me! And hello to any new readers :)**  
**Hope you enjoy this chapter xo**

* * *

11

Bells stood in the Joker's firm grasp, her breathing shallow and fast. His fingers were digging into her arms, exacerbating the pain from _where he had fucking bit her_. She couldn't even bring herself to feel too angry with him; to his crazed mind biting someone to show ownership probably seemed like a reasonable thing to do. _Ownership. _Did he really own her? Was the assumption of ownership the same as true ownership? He definitely seemed to think that he owned her, and in her limited experience what the Joker wanted, the Joker got. Getting in the way of his wants was suicide, and Bells wasn't one for suicidal tendencies. Perhaps this was easier – it was exhausting trying to challenge him all the time.

And if he desired her…

Bells already knew she was attracted to power. Look at Simon; he had been wealthy, smart, _powerful_, and her little crush on him had never really gone away. The Joker, now _he _was powerful. He was like a cat with a mouse, taunting Gotham, cruel and punishing, and enjoying it. Worst of all, _she _was enjoying it. She felt liberated. Here at the warehouse she was free to do as she wished, although only as long as what she wished was in line with what the Joker wished. There was no _society, _she decided, and that was what made the difference. No rigid set of social constructs designed to support the wealthy and tread on the poor. Here there was no wealth; there was no need of it. Here there were no little men in their big glasshouses, lobbing bricks of deceit and lies and fakery. Life was _simple _here. Life was _easy._ At least, as easy as it could be in the circumstances.

Bells looked up at the Joker again. His makeup was messy and sunken into the lines and scars on his face, the white greasepaint blending into the red, tinging it pink. She had never realised what plump lips he had, so distracted by the scars as she always had been… No, plump wasn't the right word. They were full but purposeful; full of the life that he lived, issuing orders and taking lives with one word. It was a powerful mouth, pulled taut by the scars that he had claimed and moulded himself around. How painful they must have been, how brutal the story behind them.

'Like the scars, do ya?' the Joker said, startling Bells out of her thoughts.

Bells didn't know how to reply, and simply stared at him, clenching her fists in frustration.

The Joker took in her widened eyes and tense jaw and started to giggle, shaking with mirth. Bells tried to struggle out of his grasp, trying to push him away, but he gripped her all the harder. Just as suddenly as it had began, the laughter stopped and he straightened, looking at her coldly.

'Wanna know how I got 'em?' he whispered throatily, putting his head down towards hers. He was calm, not jittery - a bad sign. What was the saying? The calm before the storm.

Bells shook her head, not wanting to look at him in the eye.

'Oh, you don't?' he asked, giving her a little shake, but his voice had returned to its usual high-pitched state, bubbling with maniacal laughter. Bells relaxed, knowing the danger had passed. She raised her eyes to his, the whites of his eyes standing out so harshly against the thick black of the greasepaint encircling them. He was still shaking, but it had reduced to a slight tremor in his fingers and shoulders – an ever-present part of him. Perhaps it was constant adrenaline coursing through him, causing him to shake like he did. It must be exhausting. Even now she could feel the heat of him radiating between them, in close proximity as they were. How long could his body endure this constant assault before it burnt out? Bells wondered how long he had been like this, and how much it had shortened his lifespan. Bells was almost disgusted by the flash of fear that this thought brought her. It was horrifying how quickly her subconscious had become attached to him.

'Penny for your, uh, thoughts?' the Joker said, snapping her out of her reverie. The pressure on her shoulders increased, and Bells remembered how little the Joker liked to be ignored. His tongue flicked out to lick his scars, and he smacked his lips, waiting for her answer.

'I was just,' Bells stammered, 'you know… thinking.'

Where was the confident girl (murderer) from a few days ago?

The Joker gave a taut chuckle that told her he wasn't amused in the least.

'That much was _obvious_, don't you think _Bells_?' he said in a sing-song voice that made her cringe. His fingers were digging hard into the bite, and she couldn't help but let out a sob of pain, flinching away from him.

'A ta ta ta _ta_,' the Joker said, still in the same high-pitched sing-song voice that grated on her ears. He dug his thumb deeper into her shoulder, and Bells bit back a cry, uncomfortably reminded of the first time she had met him as the scar on her cheek twinged. The Joker pulled her closer, almost flush against him, 'Don't be _rude_ Bells.'

'I'm sorry,' she gasped, hating how weak she sounded. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, and she slackened in the Joker's grip, suddenly unable to hold herself up. Idly she wondered how much blood she had lost; she could still feel it running in rivulets down her arm, dripping off her fingers and onto the floor. She looked up at the Joker, a question forming on her lips, but her vision blurred and his face morphed into a ghastly sight, the red and black and the white clouding together until it was just the shapes that remained. Bells gasped and tried to struggle away, the ghoulish mask seared into her vision, but he only held her tighter, confused and wary of her sudden panic.

'Uh, _Bells_?' the Joker asked, and the sound filtered into Bells' hazy mind. Blinking, her vision cleared and she looked up at him, almost crying in relief when his features were once more discernable.

'Blood loss,' she whispered, feeling too weak to form the words properly and hating it.

'Oh _my_,' the Joker said exaggeratedly, feigning gentlemanly concern. 'We'd better get you _seen to_ hadn't we?'

He leered at her, and Bells gazed unwittingly back, still dizzy. The Joker grasped her by the wrist in one leather-gloved hand, and with the other he held her chin, his fingers grinding into her jaw. Weakly she lifted a hand to swat at him but he dodged it easily, giggling as he did so. He took a step forwards, and Bells stumbled back, her bare feet catching on her top discarded on the ground. He took another step, and another, until Bells felt the cold cement wall slam into her back, icy on her bare skin. She gasped at the contact, and tried to twist away, but the Joker pinned her with his hips. It took a moment for her to process his arousal, significant against her. Bells let out a cry, and, her vision clearing for a moment, she pushed away from him with her free hand, shoving at his shoulder. Unfazed, the Joker grasped her wrist in a vice-like grip and slammed it up against the wall, bring her other arm up to follow it. Pinioned against the cement, her wrists in one gloved-hand while the other rested gently wrapped around her throat, Bells, even in her dizzied state, realised what a hopeless situation she was in.

'Please,' she whispered, looking at him, pleading with him to let her go without finding the words.

'But it's my _pleasure_,' the Joker responded mockingly, continuing the charade. Bells felt tears coming to her eyes as the strain on her shoulders increased, the pain multiplied tenfold by the throbbing bite wound that still steadily dripped blood. The Joker leant forward, so close that their noses were almost touching. Bells could feel his breath on her lips, and a shiver crept down her spine. Without even a twitch of warning, the Joker brought his lips crashing down onto hers. Bells gasped, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth. She gave a muffled noise of protest, struggling against the cage of his hands, but the Joker nipped her lip in response and Bells couldn't help but sigh. He kissed her hungrily, pushing his knee between her legs, securing her more firmly against the wall. Bells let her eyes slide closed, leaning into the kiss. His scars were harsh against her cheeks, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling: even with her eyes closed, she knew it was him. She kissed him back, unable to stop herself from arching her chest into his, the vest coarse against her bare nipples. The Joker was everything Sly wasn't. Even his smell was intoxicating: grease paint mixed with gunpowder and gasoline. Nothing had ever smelt better. Nothing could ever smell as powerful.

The Joker released his grip on her neck, the free hand now sliding down her bare chest. He tweaked a hardened nipple, and Bells gasped into the kiss, straining to free her arms from his hold. His only response was to hold her wrists more tightly, so tightly it was almost painful, the delicate bones grinding against each other. Bells gave a startled cry, pulling away from the kiss, their lips parting with a loud _smack_. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving. The Joker looked at the bright spots of colour on her cheeks, one side lovingly baring the scar he had given her. He watched her eyes lose focus, and she slumped forward into him, held up only by his grip on her wrists. _Blood loss_, she had said.

Bells' vision was swimming, the exertion too much for her in her weakened state. Suddenly the vice-like grip on her wrists disappeared and she fell forward onto the Joker, unable to catch herself in time. With an amused snort he shoved her off of him, and she fell, her knees then elbows slamming into the cement floor. Bracing herself on the ground, her eyesight blurry and distorted, she heard the Joker walk past her. She saw him pause at the threshold of the door, an indistinct blur against the grey wall.

'_Thanks _Bells. I sure had a _blast_,' Bells heard him say, mirth bubbling in his voice, before the door slammed closed.

Bells braced herself on her hands and knees, feeling nauseous. Her breath was coming in gasps as blood continued to run down her arm, pooling on the floor under her palm. Weakly, she reached for her top, still balled up on the floor, and pressed it feebly against the bite, hissing in pain. She needed medical attention, stat. It was a pity that the only person who would have obliged was cooling on the floor. Bells looked at Sly sadly, her eyes focusing just long enough to see that the Joker had retrieved his knife before he left.

Bells got up slowly and staggered over to where the medical kit was left abandoned on the floor. Hissing, she reached for it, grabbing the handle and tucking it under her arm. She had seen enough movies to know that she needed stitches, but she sure wasn't going to be able to do it herself. Bracing herself against the wall, she slowly made her way to the door, fumbling for the handle. She paused as her hand touched the cool metal, hearing voices outside of the thin wood of the door.

'What do ya think happened?'

'Dunno, but there sure was a lot of noise.'

'Heard the girl scream.'

'Think he raped her?'

'Wouldn't put it past him. Sicko probably likes them struggling.'

'She's probably into - '

Bells pulled the door open, cutting the conversation off mid-flow. A group of men were clustered around the door, looking suitably abashed at being caught eavesdropping. Striker was standing in the front, his bulky frame almost filling the doorway. He glanced down at her naked torso without seeming to realise he'd done it.

'If you're quite finished,' said Bells, shoving the medical kit into his arms, 'I think I need stitches.'

Striker looked down at her shoulder, grimacing as he did so, giving her a sympathetic look before doing a double take. Bells saw disgust cover his face. He looked back at the men behind him, a sneer half-forming on his mouth. Bells touched a hand to her cheek, confused, and flinched when it came away pink. The greasepaint.

'Wait here,' she muttered, pushing past them all. She staggered down the hall to the bathroom, weakly pulling the door closed after her. Bracing herself on the sink, she slowly looked up, facing herself in the mirror. It was worse than she had imagined. The Joker's paint had come off on her cheeks, the red and white smeared and ghoulish. It had sunk into crease of her scar, and Bells shuddered. Her lips were swollen and cracked, bleeding where he had nipped her, the blood mingling with the red greasepaint that covered her mouth like hastily applied lipstick. The entire effect was disquieting. No wonder the men had been repulsed.

Bells lowered her eyes to her shoulder, and had to immediately look away, feeling faintly sickened. The blood was startlingly crimson in her peripheral vision. Bells closed her eyes, leaning against the mirror and fogging the glass with her breath. Tremors of adrenaline and arousal still coursed through her, making her hands shake. How could she have done that? Sure, it was one thing to fantasise about a crazy mass-murderer, it was quite another to _kiss _one. To be fair, she reasoned to herself, she hadn't had much of a choice.

_But you kissed him back_. _Are you fucking crazy?_

Bells sighed, her internal monologue as usual being uncomfortably correct. She _had _kissed him back… It was the blood-loss, definitely the blood loss. She wasn't in her right state of mind. She had been weakened, she couldn't have fought him off even if she'd wanted to.

_Even if you'd wanted to?_

With a groan, Bells opened her eyes. Who was she kidding, the kiss had been amazing. The Joker kissed like he lived: hungrily. It had felt so… so potent, kissing him. Bells felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she thought about it, and her nipples hardened once more. Heat ran down her spine, pooling at the base of her belly. _He had marked her_. He _desired _her, that much was obvious. Bells grinned, forgetting the throb of her shoulder. It felt powerful, being wanted by someone so powerful himself. Who would have thought, boring little Isabelle being wanted by a homicidal psychopath. What _would _her parents say.

Bells snorted. It's not like they would ever care what she was doing. She sighed and found a washcloth, running it under the water before gently sponging off the greasepaint on her shoulder, hissing at the pain. She wondered if she needed something antibacterial. What was the protocol for being bitten by a human?

The door to the bathroom slammed opened, and Bells spun around, regretting the sudden movement instantly as her vision swam and her head pounded. Striker stood in the door, his hands curled into fists as he trembled with suppressed anger.

Bells frowned, 'Wha-'

'What the _fuck_,' he hissed, cutting her off. Bells stepped back, shocked at the intensity of his anger.

'What are you talking about?' she asked wearily, unable to think of anything but the persistent throbbing in her shoulder. She eyed the medical kit Striker still held, hoping he wasn't too angry to give her medical attention.

'What am I talking about?' snarled Striker, taking another step into the room. 'I'm talking about the fucking _dead body _you just left on the ground, you _whore_.'

_Sly. _That would explain it.

'Oh shit,' Bells muttered, closing her eyes briefly.

'What the fuck happened, Bells?' Striker asked angrily, slamming the medical kit onto the bench that spanned the tiled wall, knocking bandages and bottles onto the floor.

'What do you _think_ happened,' Bells said tiredly. 'The Joker happened.'

Striker clenched and unclenched his fists.

'Why would he kill Sly?' he hissed. 'What did you _do_?'

As Striker spoke he strode forward, grabbing Bells by the arm and shoving her up against the wall, face first. Bells gave a pained, angry snarl as he jostled her shoulder, the blood from the wound smearing onto the dirty grey tiles. Bells let him hold her there, knowing that she was too weak to fight back.

'He walked in on Sly kissing me,' she answered strategically. It was probably safer that Striker didn't know that she had been the instigator of the kissing session. 'I guess he was… jealous?'

Striker snorted, and let her go. 'Don't be thick. Joker isn't interested in anyone.'

'So Peyton and him never?'

'Like I said, Joker isn't interested.'

Bells felt triumph bubble in her chest. _She was the first_. She was _special_.

'So he killed Sly,' Striker sighed, running a grease-stained hand through his unkempt hair.

Bells nodded mutely.

'Look,' she said tiredly, 'I don't mean to hassle you, but I really think I'm in need of stitches.'

She gestured to her torn shoulder, leaning back against the sink before her legs could give way. Bells saw Striker glance quickly at the greasepaint that was still smeared across her mouth, unable to hide the look of disgust that flashed across his face. Nevertheless, he gathered up the supplies that had fallen to the floor and arranged them haphazardly on the sink. Bells let her eyes fall closed as he rummaged through the kit, exhaustion hitting her hard.

'Sit,' ordered Striker, and Bells let her legs give out from under her and she slid down the wall, crumpling in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. She drew her knees up and leant her head against them, closing her eyes once more. She heard Striker settle down in front of her, felt his cool hands on her shoulder. She hissed at the sudden contact, the pressure next to her wound sending a flash of pain down her arm.

'Hold still,' muttered Striker, and she looked up at him just in time to see him thread a needle with tough-looking string.

'That doesn't look very professional,' she observed, eying the sharp point apprehensively.

'What do you think I am, a fucking doctor?'

Bells shook her head and settled her head between her knees once more. She hissed as she felt the needle go through her flesh, but the sharp pain was almost eclipsed by the throbbing burn of the bite. She wondered why Striker was doing this for her. She supposed now that he knew the Joker was interested in her he probably wanted to rack up some brownie points. She wasn't going to complain.

'This is real messy, Bells,' said Striker, pulling the thread through the broken skin. 'It aint gonna be pretty.'

'I can deal with that,' she replied, her voice muffled by her knees. 'He seems to enjoy disfiguring me.'

Striker chuckled. 'You're not wrong.'

Several minutes later, Striker tied off the end of the thread, admiring his work. It was a pretty messy job, but it had been a pretty messy wound. There were tiny snakes of stitches coiling over her shoulder: two semi-circles almost forming a full circle. Around them were assorted shallower marks that still dripped blood, too small to bother with stitches.

Bells was breathing shallowly, looking pale. She wondered just how much blood she had lost.

'You need to sleep,' Striker observed.

'Where?' Bells muttered. 'There's a body in my room.'

His eyes narrowed at the mention of Sly, but after a moment he seemed to shrug it off. 'You can sleep in my room, if you like.'

Bells snorted. 'Do you really think that's gonna be a good idea?'

Striker frowned, and replied, 'You're right. I don't particularly want to end up knifed in the neck.'

Bells chuckled, and looked down at her shoulder. Striker had done the best job he could - it couldn't have been easy.

'Thanks. And I am sorry about Sly,' she said, looking up at him. 'I liked him.'

Striker sighed heavily. 'Yeah. We all did.'

Both of them flinched as the door swung open with a rusty creak. The Joker stood in the doorway, surveying them with a slight smile on his face. He took in Bells sitting against the tiled wall, medical supplies scattered around her, Striker crouching next to her with her blood on his hands.

'If you're finished playing doctors and nursies,' he drawled, 'I need you to get the guys ready. We're going _out_.'

Striker nodded, getting quickly to his feet and leaving the bathroom without a glance to Bells. The Joker stepped into the room, one hand fiddling with his ever-present knife. Bells looked at him in apprehension, but couldn't stop a shiver that ran down her spine at the site of the smeared paint around the Jokers mouth, a mirror of her own.

The Joker crouched down in front of her.

'I like the decoration,' he said, gesturing to her mouth. 'Who knew it'd suit you.'

Bells felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the back-handed compliment.

'Wasn't exactly the colouring I would have chosen myself, but I think it really brings out my eyes.'

The Joker grinned, his yellow teeth thankfully no longer stained with her blood. Bells sighed, exhaustion once more colouring her vision a dull blur. Her head lolled forward, feeling heavy on her neck.

'I need sleep,' she admitted, her eyes straining to see him.

'_Do _you? And here I thought we were all _going out_.'

Bells sighed, and shook her head, regretting it immediately as her head began to pound.

'I'll slow you down.'

The Joker surveyed her, his eyes lingering on her shoulder.

'Look at you, all _tuckered_ out. Go to sleep then _Bells_.'

She nodded, getting slowly to her feet. Bracing herself against the wall, Bells took a step towards the door, but heat rose in her neck and a roaring noise filled her ears. Stumbling, she grasped at the lapels of the Jokers jacket to steady herself, but her vision went grey. She felt him grasp her arms, and opened her mouth to speak, but darkness rushed into her vision and the world went black.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter, make sure to leave a review so I can get your feedback, positive or negative. I'd especially like to know if you think Bells is Mary-Sueish, I'm trying my utmost for that not to happen, but what do you think?  
****Hopefully the next chapter will be out a little sooner :) Remember to REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: What a lovely surprise! I updated! For those of you who read my profile, I said I wouldn't update until mid-November because of school and exams, but I couldn't help myself. I felt bad that it had been so long, and so here we are. That being said, there will definitely be no more updates until mid-November! For those of you that stuck around, thank you! For anyone new, hope you like what you see :)  
**Responding to some reviews:  
_CrazyPretty:_ I'm not really sure on this count. I haven't yet decided whether he's just keeping Bells around because she's amusing. This definitely won't be turning into a love story though, maybe more of an obsession.  
_Fox1212:_ Thanks so much! Remember to check my profile if I haven't updated in a while :)  
_Lady Ravanna:_ As always, your reviews are perfect and inspirational. I can't wait to hear more metaphors!**  
****Happy reading! **

* * *

12

Bells sat up with a gasp, looking around frantically. The world lurched and she was thrown into a wall, landing with a hiss on hard metal. It was very dark, but she could hear the rumbling of an engine. She was in the van, then. Her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, Bells felt around cautiously, ignoring the steady discomfort of her still throbbing shoulder. Her hand found a grip, a loop of rope hanging from the side of the van and she hung on, pulling herself slowly up to her knees. The van went around a corner, and Bells gave a pained squeak as the movement strained her shoulder into a strange position and her legs went out from underneath her.

'Still can't believe he fucking bit me,' she muttered under her breath, pulling herself back into kneeling position.

'Lets not be _rude_.'

Bells supposed she should have known she wouldn't be left on her own, and she strained her eyes, trying to see through the darkness to find the Joker.

'Where are we going?'

'Just a little trip to the hospital.'

Bells spotted his outline in the corner of the van, barely making out his dark form.

'The hospital?' she asked dryly. 'I didn't realise you cared so much about my wellbeing.'

She heard him laugh.

'Oh it's not for you,' he giggled, and she coloured.

_Stupid. _

'Right,' she said slowly. Bells decided that she would rather not know what they were going to be doing at a hospital, and decided to change the subject.

'Got any water?' she asked casually, trying to sound as though she wasn't absolutely parched and gladly would have done anything for even a sip. She heard him rustle around and the crunch of soft plastic.

'Catch.'

'Wha- Ouch!'

Bells was cut off as a plastic water bottle glanced off of her forehead and fell into her lap. She sighed, hearing the Joker laughing again, but was grateful for the water. She still felt slightly dizzy, and her head swam as she unscrewed the lid of the bottle. She raised it up to her mouth, giving an annoyed grunt as the van braked suddenly and the lip of the bottle clashed against her teeth. Righting herself, she tipped her head back and took a long swig from the bottle. The water was lukewarm, and Bells wondered how long it had been sitting in the van. She decided she didn't care as she continued to drink. She swallowed the last sip, let the bottle fall to the floor, and sat back, still clinging onto the rope. Idly she realised she hadn't cut her nails in a while as they cut into the calloused and scarred skin of her palms. Her eyes finally adjusting to the dark, she made out the Joker sitting in the far corner away from her, his feet propped up on a cardboard box of bottled water. He was looking at her. Something was different about him, but she couldn't quite make it out in the dim interior of the van. She squinted at him, and with a start Bells realised that he wasn't wearing his grease paint.

'Why aren't –' Bells asked, before closing her mouth, her teeth snapping together with an audible click. The Joker glanced at her, seemingly amused, before brushing a hand over his cheeks. He wasn't wearing his gloves.

'This is a very _covert _operation, Bells,' he said, drawing out the _s _with a hissing sound. 'It wouldn't do for a nursey to see me and go crying to the po-_lice_, now would it?'

Bells shook her head, unable to read his mood in the dark.

'Sorry, what was that? It's rude not to answer question when they're asked. Didn't your mummy teach you _manners_?'

'I shook my – I mean, no. That wouldn't do,' Bells said quickly. 'But, wouldn't the people at the hospital recognise me? I was treated at Gotham General.'

'You get a disguise too!' the Joker said gleefully, and she saw him gesture at her midriff. Looking down, Bells realised that she was no longer topless. Thinking back, she reflected that she had been topless for a good proportion of the day. Dimly she wondered why that didn't bother her. She was wearing a button up shirt, possibly a cast-off from one of the smaller members of the crew. With a sinking feeling, she reached for the hem and flipped it up. _Sly _was written messily in black ink, smudged and faded with wear. She had discovered Sly's habit of writing his name on the hem of his shirts a few days previously during an inadvisable game of strip poker.

_Bells sat at the table, leaning back on the creaky wooden chair and absentmindedly wondering whether it would snap while she was still on it. In her hands was a hand of cards, a rather good hand if she might say so herself. She grinned, as always unable to keep a poker face. In front her sat Striker, and next to him Specs, a gangly boy seemingly straight out of adolescence, so named for his affinity for technology and the wire-framed glasses that sat on his pimpled nose. Holding her cards in one hand, she pointed at him. _

'_What did you do to get here? Little young, aren't you kid?'_

'_Who are you calling a kid?' Specs demanded indignantly, pushing his glasses up on his nose and accidently showing her his (terrible) hand in the process. Sly, who sat beside her, chuckled and Bells grinned at him. _

'_You are a kid, kid,' grunted Striker, frowning in concentration at the cards he held in front of him. Specs sat back in his chair, annoyed. He clearly didn't want to answer the question. Bells decided to let it drop. _Touchy, _she thought._

_Several rounds later, Bells sat smugly and comfortably clothed, grinning at the men around her, all in various states of undress. Of all of them, Specs had the most damage, having lost his shoes, socks, shirt, and pants. Bells was trying to avoid looking at his bony chest, covered as it was in cigarette burns and cuts that looked as if they'd been made with a serrated knife. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sly shift uncomfortably, clearly not happy about the fact that his shirt was on the table, rather than on his chest. She glanced quickly over at him, and he coloured, shifting his arms on the table. Was he embarrassed? Bells risked another look and resolutely decided that he had nothing to worry about. Sure, he was on the slim side, but she liked her men wiry. She had never enjoyed the bodybuilders at her high school that her friends fell over themselves to talk to. They were boring. Sly wasn't bad looking either, if you didn't mind the greasy hair and unfortunate cargo pants. She rested her elbows on table, flipping a card between her fingers – the jack of spades. She wondered where all of the joker cards had disappeared to. There were none of them in any of the packs. She wondered if the Joker had decorated his room with them, and suppressed a chuckle at the thought. _

_Giving the game up as a bad job, she threw her cards onto the table, tsking when one landed in the folds of Sly's bunched up shirt. She reached across him to grab it, pausing when she saw a black smudge on the hem. She flipped it up, ignoring Sly's reluctant noise, and couldn't help but let out a giggle. _

'_You name your shirts?' she asked him incredulously. _

'_It's logical!' Sly protested indignantly with a touch of embarrassment. 'Everybody's shirts end up together and this_ _way I can find them easily…'_

_He trailed off, and Bells felt a slight touch of remorse, exacerbated when she heard Specs let out a small laugh which he quickly stifled._

'_I know, I know,' Bells conceded. 'It's just so, I don't know… so unexpected.'_

'_Polite way of saying that only kids do that,' smirked Striker. 'Or their mothers.'_

'_Shut up,' said Sly stiffly, and Bells realised that she had stumbled upon an issue that had clearly been brought up before, to general amusement. She patted him on his bare arm. _

'_There, there. I get it. You must be the only halfway intelligent one here,' she said consolingly, unable to stop herself from thinking about how strange it was that she was reassuring a member of the Joker's murderous crew whose feelings she had hurt. How strange her life was. _

A tear slid down Bells' nose, and she wiped it away angrily, flipping down the hem of the shirt with as much force as one could flip down the hem of a shirt. She heard an amused snort and realised that in her reverie the Joker had taken the opportunity to crouch in front of her. Forcing herself not to scramble away, Bells leant back slightly under the pretext of rearranging her legs underneath her.

'You get that he had to die right?' the Joker asked conversationally, settling a palm on her knee and patting it reassuringly.

'Yeah,' Bells murmured. 'I get it.'

She shifted. It had been a long time since the Joker had touched her without gloves – not since the early days of him grabbing her. There had been a poker game then too, Bells reflected, a wry grin curling across her face, twisted by her fading scar. The Joker tapped his fingers, drumming out a little tattoo on her kneecap. In the dim light she could barely make him out. It was difficult to read his mood when she couldn't see him. She shifted again, a little uncomfortable.

'How's the, ah, _wound_?' the Joker asked. Bells could make out a hint of excitement in his voice and it alarmed her. She couldn't place the source of it.

'Bit better,' she said slowly, subconsciously reaching up to touch the bandage. She started as the Joker snatched up her hand with tight fingers and held it up to his face, turning it this way and that, as if examining it for faults. She looked at him, a slight frown on her face as she attempted to figure out what it was he was after. The Joker pinched the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, watching her to see her response. She narrowed her eyes at him.

'Ya know what, Bells?' he asked conversationally, now holding her wrist tightly.

'What?' she replied slowly, slightly suspicious.

'You're fun to have around. I haven't had this much _scandal _in the crew since you decided to join us.'

He grinned as Bells bit her lip in an attempt to stop herself from scathingly retorting that she hadn't in fact just one day decided that the life of crime was the one for her. But lately she had begun to realise that she probably couldn't honestly say that she didn't want to be where she currently was. Bells looked up at the Joker as his peroxide green hair swung across his face whilst the van veered around a corner. He was looking at her intently, his head tilted slightly to the side. She felt his free hand slide onto her jean-clad knee and Bells couldn't help but shiver at his proximity. A low, familiar fire was building in her belly, and she decided that it wasn't her fault if her body reacted this way. It was human instinct, and it _was_ the first time she had seen him without his makeup. Bells had been right in her assumption that he was attractive; he was, devastatingly so. His jawline was hard and strong, matched with high cheekbones that could cut glass. The only mar to his features was the twin scars that curled over his cheeks from the edges of his stained red lips – but even those she was growing used to. She could hardly talk, anyway, considering her less-than-perfect accessory courtesy of the Joker's knife.

Without realising, Bells had fixed her eyes upon the Joker's scars. The Joker seemed to grow still, and slowly brought her hand up to his cheek with a surprisingly soft grip. Bells' eyes widened as her fingers tentatively touched the scar tissue, surprisingly hard and ridged beneath her fingertips. The Joker slowly released her hand, but Bells didn't move hers. Looking at him intently to gauge his reaction, she slowly ran her fingers down his scar, bringing up her other hand to match the movements on the other. The Joker let out a shudder and seemed to lean into her touch. Bells tried to stay calm, but couldn't help but feel a little excited – perhaps he needed her, too? Just perhaps? Looking back later, Isabelle couldn't believe how naïve she had been.

Bells let her fingers softly touch the corner of the Joker's lips. His eyes flew open and his hand closed around her wrists with crushing force. The fire in her belly built as he looked at her with narrowed eyes. Bells didn't say anything, unsure how to interpret this new mood. Before she could react, he wrenched her arms upwards against the wall of the van, and, holding her wrists in one hand, looped the rope she had clung to when she first regained consciousness around her wrists. He released her, and Bells found herself hanging from the roof of the van in an awkward semi-crouch – too high to sit down comfortably, but too low to stand. It put a painful pressure on her arms as she attempted to find a comfortable position. Before she could, however, Bells found herself pressed back against the wall of the van, the Joker crouched between her knees. He was grinning at her, and she glared back.

'I like you like this,' the Joker purred, the only way Bells could describe it.

'I'm not sure I'm a big fan,' she replied haughtily, trying to ignore the tingling fire that was accumulating in her core.

The Joker smirked at Bells. He could see she was trying to hide her pleasure at the position he had put her in, but even in the dimness of the van he could see that her pupils had dilated. He sat back on his heels, watching her as she shuffled uncomfortably. That whole business with the scars and the touching had appeared to work well: he had seen her smile slightly as he forced himself to lean into her touch. This was _child's play_. She was so easy to manipulate.

Bells started as the Joker put his hands on her thighs, his nails digging into her skin even through the denim jeans she wore. He leaned forward until his forehead was touching hers and she could feel his breath against her lips. She suppressed a shudder of desire as his tongue flicked out and drew a line across her parted lips. Bells leant forward into the Joker, trying to get closer to him despite her arms being bound above her head. The Joker let out a throaty chuckle and moved away from her lips, and Bells was startled by the whimpered mewl that she emitted at his sudden distance. Before she knew it, the Joker's mouth was at her neck, kissing and nipping his way down to her shoulder, Bells' eyes flying shut at the heady sensation. His teeth closed briefly around her collarbone, and she let out a small moan. She leant into him as his fingers found the buttons of her shirt, making quick work of them. Bells shivered as the cool air hit her exposed nipples, hardened by desire. Before she could process it, his mouth closed around a peaked nipple, his tongue dancing circles that made her cry out before she could stop herself. A hand settled roughly on her other breast, and the fingers deftly pulled and tweaked in rhythm with his tongue and teeth on the other. She arched her back, pushing into him, internally cursing at the bindings on her wrists.

'Fuck,' she groaned, and the Joker laughed into her, the vibrations doing wonders.

Her eyes had fluttered closed, but they flew open again as she felt the warm fingers of his free hand settle onto her lower stomach lightly, causing her to shiver in anticipation. Slowly, ever so slowly, his fingers crept down to the waistband of her jeans and slid underneath. Bells cried out as his nimble fingers found the neglected nub and tweaked it as he flicked her nipples. A familiar fire was building in her core and without thinking Bells flung her legs around the Joker's torso, trying to get closer.

'Untie me,' she panted, arching her back.

The Joker looked up from his ministrations, eyes glinting with what looked like amusement.

'No,' he said, smirking infuriatingly.

'Please! I just want to t- Ooooh,' Bells moaned as he interrupted her request by slipping a finger inside of her, one thumb still working her clitoris. The Joker chuckled throatily as her eyes slid closed, and he slid a second into her. Bells was in rapture as he hooked his fingers, hitting her pleasure spot, and she moaned again. He continued to work as she strained against the bindings, her wrists becoming raw as they chafed against the coarse rope. The Joker bit down on her nipple whilst flicking the other, working in synchronisation with his fingers and thumb. Bells couldn't even form a coherent word as waves of pleasure wracked through her body, her thighs tightening around the Joker as she attempted to find something to hold to. The fire inside her was building, and Bells cried out as the Joker replaced his thumb with his tongue, fingers still caressing her inside. His teeth closed gently around her nub, and Bells unravelled. She threw her head back, legs clamping around him and arms straining against the ropes. Pleasure rolled over her in waves, and the Joker continued in his ministrations, drawing out the climax. He pulled back as she let out a half-scream, legs shaking and sweat beading her forehead.

The Joker watched Bells become limp, slumping into him as her legs lost their hold around his torso. She was breathing heavily, held upright only by the ropes he had tied around her wrists. He was aware of his own arousal as he pulled away from her. Bells' eyes fluttered open, and she was looking at him carefully through the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked as if she was about to say something.

Bells stared at the Joker, trying to process what had just occurred. She opened her mouth, but closed it again resolutely, deciding that the best course of action would be to not question what had just occurred. She definitely wasn't going to complain. So she asked the next question that came to mind.

'Can you please untie me now?'

The Joker regarded her with his head tilted to the side. Slowly, a grin spread across his face and he began to laugh. Without the greasepaint she could see the way his eyes creased when he laughed, the small dimples that disappeared into his scars. She began to smile herself, eventually dissolving into giggles.

Without warning, the van screeched to a stop and Bells was thrown into the Joker, yanking painfully against the ropes and pulling at her bandaged shoulder. The Joker stopped laughing and growled, pushing her away as his mood suddenly changed. The door of the van slid open and light poured in, causing Bells to squint. The Joker jumped out onto the road, leaving Bells hanging.

'Uh,' she said, 'Does somebody wanna-'

She stopped talking as Striker clambered into the rear of the van, coming forwards to free her. He pulled out a mean looking knife, and quickly cut the ropes. Bells caught herself as she fell forward, wincing as circulation returned to her arms.

'Thanks,' she muttered, rubbing at her wrists and inspecting the ring of raw skin that encircled them.

'No problem,' Striker grinned, climbing out of the van and holding up a hand to help her down, which she ignored. She clambered out stiffly, muscles protesting.

'Really I should be thanking you,' Striker continued, still grinning, 'I got quite a show.'

Bells coloured, 'You heard that?'

He nodded.

'Uh, well… Where are we?' she changed the subject. She looked around herself, noting that it was only she, Striker, and the Joker that appeared to have arrived. They were parked in an alleyway, and at the end she could see cars driving past, the siren of an ambulance blaring. The Joker was leaning against a wall, muttering to himself.

'Gotham General,' Striker replied, pulling equipment out of the van and tossing a hooded sweatshirt at her. She caught it deftly and pulled it on.

'Why we here? And where is everyone?'

'Planting bombs is a small job.'

'What?' Bells cried, spinning around to glare at the Joker. Striker grabbed hold of her shoulder but she angrily shook him off. She stalked towards him, fists clenched.

'Why the fuck are we planting bombs in a hospital?' she growled, waking the Joker out of his contemplations.

'Oh, blackmail, you know? Bit of this, bit of that,' he replied, not looking at her.

'Innocent people, Joker! You can't just kill innocent people!' Bells exclaimed angrily.

'Yes. I can.'

He slowly turned to look at her, but she held her ground. _Innocent people for fucks sake! Invalids! _

'No, you can't. How is killing innocent people part of your plan! You want Batman, fine! Climb on to the top of the MCU and fire up the fucking Batman-shaped spotlight! If you think I'm going to help-'

Bells was cut off as the Joker grabbed her chin roughly and slammed her into the wall. She winced as the concrete pressed into her shoulder.

'Firstly, Bells, you _are _going to help. Secondly, I said it was blackmail. They'll get plenty of time to run away and those who don't get out in time should have run faster. Thirdly, if you question me again I will break your neck.'

Bells stilled, remembering Sly and Peyton. The Joker looked at her, tongue flicking out to the corner of his mouth. He was breathing heavily.

'So… you're not going to kill everyone?' she asked timidly.

'Well, not _everyone_. I'll give 'em a head start,' the Joker grinned, letting go of her. He seemed to be in a better mood after a good bit of threatening. Bells supposed it had a calming effect. She watched as Striker threw a sweatshirt over to him, and he pulled it on, pulling the hood over his recognisable green curls and shadowing his face. Striker did the same. Bells thought it was perhaps going to be a little suspicious when three hooded people meandered around a hospital carrying a large backpack, but she let it go. The Joker was the criminal mastermind in this operation, not her. She was just a tag-along.

'Ok,' sighed Bells, pulling the hood over her face and tucking her hair in. 'Let's go plant us some bombs.'

She giggled.

* * *

**How do you think the Joker was this chapter? He's incredibly difficult to write believably, so I'm always up for constructive criticism. Follow and review, it'll really make my day!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Whoops I said upload mid-November, but I meant I would start writing this chapter mid-November, and so here it is! Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews last chapter!**

* * *

13

Planting bombs had been a strange experience for Bells. As a child she'd always enjoyed sneaking around, getting into dark spaces and hearing conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. There was a certain thrill to it. She recalled one particularly vivid memory when she overheard a conversation between her parents. They were discussing how Isabelle had been acting out more and more lately, and how 'It just isn't the thing for a young girl!' Seven year-old Isabelle had snorted, swept her half cut-off bangs away from her forehead, placed the scissors down next to the pile of hair at her foot, and continued to draw a small garden scene on the back of the cupboard door in black permanent marker. Bells had felt the same way at the hospital, where she had seen her face stuck onto various message boards, 'MISSING' spelt out in large letters above a photo of her at her high school prom. It was, she had to admit, an unfortunate photo. However, seeing that was nothing compared to the thrill that ran through her as they passed underneath a television, and it was obviously a slow news days as the headline read 'JOKER STILL AT LARGE', switching to 'POLICE CONTINUE TO SEARCH FOR KIDNAP VICTIM ISABELLE RICHARDS', and finally, 'BATMAN SPOTTED IN NARROWS'. Bells had given a snort at that. He was in the right area, sure, but he had no hope of finding her. Not when she didn't particularly want to be found.

Bells sighed and laid back on the moth-eaten couch, swinging her feet up to rest on the pitted wooden coffee-table. Sweeping her hair out of her eyes, she idly picked at a scab on her forearm, letting the sound and colour of the television wash over her. Specs sat next to her, typing furiously on a laptop, pausing every now and then to push his glasses further up his nose. Bells leant over to look, but she couldn't understand the green letters zipping across the screen anymore than she had understood her ninth grade biology teacher when he'd attempted to explain to her the function of the endoplasmic reticulum in a cell.

'What are you doing?' she asked casually, trying to look as though she had a background in hacking and computers, which was so far from the case that the case was residing a small life-raft in the middle of the ocean, spelling out 'HELP' with orange life-jackets.

Specs paused momentarily. 'It's a complicated algorithm, you wouldn't understand.'

Bells was completely ready to appear offended at this dismissal, but realised that there was no point in pretending to look as though she knew what an algorithm was.

'Ok, then,' she said impatiently, 'what's the aim of the… algorithm.'

Specs then when on to spout all sorts of complicated mathematical nonsense, of which Bells only picked up on the words 'matrix' and 'coding', and surprisingly, 'rocket.'

'Wait, wait, wait. Backtracking just a little,' interrupted Bells, 'Did you say rocket?'

'Yes, yes. Basically, this is to work out where in Gotham we can find another military grade Norinco Type 69 RPG, which fires this type of rocket. The algorithm is searching through military documents and any other relevant databases.'

'And why do we need another Nomanco - '

'Norinco.'

'…Norinco rocket launcher, when we already have one?' Bells asked.

Specs just looked at her. 'Why not?'

Bells conceded that he had a point. She laid back on the couch again, her eyes flicking to the television, trying to ignore the annoying clicking of the keyboard beside her. The news was broadcasting Harvey Dent speaking at a press conference, gesturing and effusing and generally looking like an important person who knew what he was talking about. She frowned and turned up the volume.

'_\- called this press conference for two reasons,_' Dent's voice rang out across the room, as he gestured and effused importantly. '_Firstly, to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done._' (Bells let out a little chuckle. They were so in over their heads). '_Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in._'

Bells jumped, and Specs paused in his typing.

_Wait, what?_

She turned the television up some more.

'_Let's consider the situation: should we give in to this terrorist's demands?'_

Bells watched with rapt attention as Dent began to lose control of the crowd. '_You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of citizens?' _demanded one reporter, making what Bells thought was a rather good point.

'_The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming.'_

Bells frowned as the fickle crowd grew quiet. She couldn't quite believe what was happening. She had felt similarly on the morning after the aforementioned wild party of Simon's, in which she had woken topless underneath the dining table, a pineapple tucked into the crook of her elbow and no memory of how it came to be there.

_'So be it,' _Dent turned to the police officers beside him. '_Take the Batman into custody.'_

Bells stilled, watching with wide eyes. Dent turned, staring into the camera.

'_I am the Batman.'_

Bells' eyes widened. She flew up off of the couch, running across the room and flinging the door open.

_Oh my god oh my god._

Dodging various confused cronies as she raced down the hallway, Bells came to a panting stop outside of the Joker's door. Breathlessly, she knocked. This seemed to her to be a rather good idea, when one considered that the last time she had barged in without knocking she had ended up with a hand-shaped bruise around her neck. Breathlessly, she waited.

A disgruntled 'Yes?' was heard, and Bells opened the door and hovered in the threshold, fidgeting. The Joker was hunched over his desk, looking through documents that she couldn't make out. Despite her pressing news, she hesitantly stepped forward into the room, and the Joker slowly looked up at her.

'What is it?' he asked shortly. _Uh oh_. Somebody was in a bad mood. How to phrase this?

'Harvey Dent is Batman,' Bells said, cutting straight to the point. 'He just announced it on TV and got arrested.'

The Joker paused. If Bells didn't know better she would say he was surprised.

'Now, that _is _interesting,' he drawled, drawing out the _s. '_Harvey, Harvey, Harvey, what _have _you gotten yourself into.'

'Is it true?' Bells asked. The few times she had met Harvey hadn't really instilled the sense that he enjoyed dressing up as a bat and terrorising criminals on his nights out. Still, one never knew with these save-the-world types. The Joker let out a laugh.

'No, no, no. Harvey _Dent_. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.'

So it wasn't Harvey. Bells couldn't help but feel a little put out. There she was all excited about delivering important news and it wasn't even true. Bloody misleading, that's what it was. She looked at the Joker, who appeared to have sunk into a contemplative mood. His hands were steepled on the desk, bare fingers tapping against each other in an erratic rhythm. She looked at his hands, subconsciously rubbing her wrists upon which mild rope burn was still visible, remembering what those fingers had done just the day before. Her eyes darted to his mouth, covered once more in red greasepaint. Her cheeks flushed. Bells wasn't ashamed to admit that it had been a _very _good time, and that she hoped it wouldn't happen again. Several more times. Preferably in new and varied positions. Deciding that following that particular train of thought was not a great idea when in his presence, Bells sat on the arm of the sofa, waiting for the Joker to come to a decision.

After approximately ten seconds of waiting, Bells came to the realisation that she didn't like to wait.

'So what's the plan, boss?' she asked impatiently.

The Joker looked up, a quick grin sliding across his features, leaving as quickly as it came as if it didn't want to be on the face of a murderous psychopath one second longer than it needed to.

'They'll take Dent to county. Let's see if we can lure the Bat out of his cave for the chase,' the Joker said, a manic glee suddenly taking over his features. He got to his feet, striding purposefully over to Bells in her position on the arm of the sofa. She stilled, expectant.

The Joker paused in front of her, reaching out the grab her cheek and swiping a thumb harshly over her lips in an unusual and unexpected display of affection.

'Nice going, Bells,' he said, before leaning over and planting a wet kiss on her lips. Bells let her arms slide around his shoulders gripping the fabric of his purple trench-coat with fingers that trembled. She tilted her head to get a better angle, running her tongue over his teeth as his own assaulted her senses. Bells felt a slight tightening in her core, and swung her legs around the Joker's hips to increase the pleasant intensity of the feeling. All too soon, the Joker broke the kiss, and harshly nipped the shell of her ear as he pulled away. Disappointed, Bells let her legs swing to the ground.

'Get dressed,' the Joker gruffly intoned as he turned away from her, gathering knives from the table, 'we're going out.' Deftly slipping the knives into various hidden pockets on his person, the Joker flung open the door and stalked out into the hall. Bells got up slowly, and peered out of the door after him. He was rapping a tattoo on the walls as he walked, and in his path doors were thrown open as his men responded to the summons, pulling on coats and fishing masks out of the cupboards that lined the walls. She quickly darted down the hallway, pulling open the door to her room. Searching through the clothes strewn on the floor, she picked up her black leather bodysuit and combat boots, hurriedly pulling them on. She was almost out the door when she paused, her eyes going to the table in the corner upon which sat the gun she had killed the Italians with.

_Why the fuck not. You're a criminal now, you may as well act like it. _

She grabbed the gun, sliding it into a conveniently placed thigh holster, putting an extra magazine into an adjacent pocket. Feeling kind of badass, what with the leather and the lethal weapon and the questionable state of mind, she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

* * *

Bells stared at the truck, unable to stop a grin from sliding across her face.

'Slaughter is the best medicine,' she read out, giggling. She turned to the assorted goons. 'Witty.'

Striker coloured a little. 'Thanks.'

She clambered into the back of the truck, where the Joker was waiting on a wooden crate. The goons followed, sliding the door shut behind them. Sitting in the dark, Bells crouched tensely on the floor, her finger playing over the gun strapped to her thigh. The engine of the truck roared into life.

'Fuck' was heard several times by people falling over as the truck jolted onto the road, and then heard several times again as the truck haphazardly turned a corner. Bells amused herself by imagining several lucrative and complicated schemes in which the truck driver would meet a painful and prolonged death, which would be no less than he deserved. Someone turned on a torch, and Bells gratefully found and clung on to a piece of metal protruding from the scaffolding of the truck, bracing herself on the next turn. The Joker sat undisturbed on the wooden crate, his centre of gravity infuriatingly perfect as he somehow pre-empted and swayed with the turns. His fingers were tapping against his leg, and Bells could just hear a faint humming coming from his direction. He was in a good mood.

Bells felt the truck dip, and the sound of the engine became distorted, as if they had gone underground. The Joker leapt up, pushing his way to the front and peering into the cabin of the truck. Bells followed, tottering as the truck made a vague and illegal attempt to change lanes through several other cars. They were on lower Fifth Avenue, she realised. A SWAT van was just ahead, weaving erratically through confused motorists who were yet to realise that they were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. The truck barrelled through them, gaining on the van and eventually scraping the rear bumper, and then hitting harder, so hard that Bells bit her tongue and felt the taste of copper seep into her mouth. The van careered wildly, and Bells could just make out panicked screams of the unfortunate men inside before the van ploughed through the dividing concrete barrier and into the river. Spitting blood out of her mouth, Bells made her way back to the rear of the truck, siting dazedly on the wooden crate the Joker had just vacated. The truck lurched, and in a flurry of imaginative expletives Bells was thrown sideways, and only succeeded in not falling off by throwing one leg over the corner of the crate and one hand finding another conveniently protruding piece of metal to cling to.

Bells watched with interest as the sliding cargo door of the truck was heaved open, emitting a high-pitched squeal, and the Joker leant out precariously as they pulled up next to a second SWAT van. Someone, Major, she thought, a somewhat new recruit, handed the Joker a machine gun, which was rather exciting. The Joker braced the gun against his torso, and opened fire on the van, peppering the side with bullets. Bells flinched at the loud noise, assuming correctly that this van held Dent. The Joker stilled, and she tilted her head, curious. She got up and, bracing herself on the side of the truck, made her way over to him, peering out of the cargo door. The Tumbler roared into her line of site, dodging oncoming traffic with delicate precision that looked out of place on such an unwieldy vehicle.

_Batman?_

'Is that him - ?' she asked.

'Anybody could be driving that thing,' the Joker growled. He turned to his men, who were confusedly aiming their guns at the Tumbler. 'Stay on Dent.'

He turned to Bells. 'Get me the RPG.'

Knowing better than to ask questions (like 'Which one?', or 'What is that?', or even a simple 'Where?'), Bells turned and looked into the dim interior of the truck. Each of the wooden crates had a smudged label, and after searching through each of them, she found the correct crate tucked into the back corner of the truck. Hooking her nails under the lip of the lid and gaining several splinters, Bells heaved open the box, uncomfortably aware that the Joker was probably getting impatient. Picking up the large gun-type thing, Bells turned it over to look at the smudged paint that labelled it as a 'Norinco Type 69 RPG'. She could see why Specs was trying to find another. This thing was _cool_. She grabbed a second rocket in case it was needed.

Tottering over to the Joker, he snatched the RPG out of her hands, lining up the van containing Dent in his cross-hairs. Bells watched as a SWAT member holding a shot-gun eyed the weapon, and shouted something indistinguishable at his colleague driving. Just as the Joker fired, the driver slammed on the brakes and crashed back into the garbage truck behind, which, Bells realised, had Specs at the wheel. With a near-miss that probably induced a heart attack in the SWAT driver, the RPG slammed into the unfortunate squad car in front of it, which exploded with a definitive bang that hurt her ears and threw Bells into the side of the truck. The SWAT van swerved through the fireball, and she could feel the intense heat of it as they passed. She shuddered with adrenalin.

'Do me up,' came the Joker's voice, and she turned and saw his hand out waiting impatiently. Fumbling clumsily with the rocket tucked under her arm, she handed it to him, disappointedly realising that his gloves were back on. He reloaded, and aimed again, this time at something that she couldn't see. She craned her head out of the door just as the Joker fired, and the rocket slammed into the back corner of the Tumbler, which had been steadily gaining on them. This time the force of the explosion threw her head into the side of the door, and the world went dark.

* * *

Bells' consciousness looked at her reluctantly, as if it would much rather make a run for it. She opened her eyes slowly with a groan. She was in the back corner of the truck, which was moving at a much more leisurely pace than it had been when she'd been knocked out. She groaned again for effect, and the Joker must have heard her because she heard his voice coming from the cabin of the truck:

'Bells, get over here.'

He sounded almost childishly excited. Bells got up slowly, putting a hand to her throbbing head. With difficulty, she climbed into the driver's cabin, wincing as she put her hand into a pool of fresh, sticky blood. She didn't want to know what had happened to Slim, the driver. Sliding herself into the passenger seat, she realised that they were now above ground, and simultaneously realised that there was a police helicopter coming down from the sky directly in front of them, silhouetted against the lights of the city.

'Uh, Joker,' she said tentatively, nodding in the helicopter's direction.

He ignored her, swinging the wheel of the truck as he reached into his coat pocket and fished out a walkie-talkie.

'Rack 'em up, rack 'em up!' he growled excitedly into it, and Bells' eyes widened as she suddenly spied two of his men on building on either side of them. They fired grappling hooks which grew taut as they connected to the opposite building, and Bells froze with expectation. With painful optimism, the helicopter dipped towards them, swinging guns around to aim at the truck. It flew straight into the metal cables. With grating, thwapping, metallic noise, the blades of the chopper were caught, flinging the body of the craft down towards the street. It hit with a crunch and rolled, once, twice, three times. Bells winced as it exploded in the biggest ball of fire she had seen yet, but she couldn't help but let out a small whoop of victory, making the Joker chuckle. The SWAT van swerved around the flaming wreckage of the chopper with a screech of abused tires.

Unexpectedly, the Joker grabbed her hand and put it on the wheel to take as he looked intently ahead.

'Boss?' she asked, struggling to keep the truck in line as the Joker reached behind her chair and pulled a machine gun onto his lap. She grinned as the Bat-pod dramatically emerged from an alley, speeding through the smoke and fire towards them, Batman hunched over the handle-bars.

The Joker shrugged resignedly. 'Guess it was him.'

The Bat-pod sped straight towards them, and Bells flinched as the Batman fired what appeared to be a harpoon at the truck. Flinching, she waited for the impact, but none came.

'He missed!' she crowed excitedly, but the grin slid off her face in much the same way as mud does in a mud-slide as lamp-posts were ripped down in their path by the cable, one after the other with an explosion of sparks.

'Shit' was all Bells had time to say before the truck lurched sickeningly as the cable caught the front wheels and suddenly the back of the truck decided it would much rather be the front of the truck and she was airborne. Time seemed to slow as she abandoned the wheel and threw her hands out in front of her, bracing herself against the wind-screen, but it wasn't enough and her head slammed into the glass as her legs came free of the seat and into the air and over her head and there was a sickening impact that elicited a sharp pain in her ribs and she could hear the Joker laughing and the glass smashed beneath her and she hit the street. For the second time that evening, everything went black.

* * *

Even more slowly and reluctantly, Bells' much-abused consciousness returned. She very, very cautiously opened her eyes, blinking at the obnoxious light from the lamp-post directly above her. Attempting to get her bearings, she lifted her head.

'Fuck!' she whimpered. The movement had produced a horrific pain, and she realised that she had probably broken some ribs. Probably had a concussion too, by the way her vision was spinning nauseatingly. She let her head hit the concrete of the street, unable to hold it up any longer. That, too, produced a painful throbbing sensation. She cautiously prodded herself, attempting to find further areas of pain. Everything seemed to be an area of pain and she spent some time freaking out before she realised that the hand she was prodding herself with was broken.

Dimly, through ringing ears, she could hear the irritating wail of several police sirens drawing nearer, and then the excited chuckle of the Joker, not too far away.

'Hit me. Come on. Hit me. _Hit me_.'

_Please don't hit him. He's the most fun I've had in years._

An engine was roaring closer. Bells assumed it was the Bat-pod. With a screech of tires there was a loud slam and the cabin of the truck behind her rocked with the force of the impact. The Joker began to laugh manically and Bells relaxed, realising that he hadn't been injured and that Batman had hit the truck. There was a snick of a switch-blade being opened.

'Drop it.'

Bells frowned. The voice was somewhat familiar. It was Detective Gordon, she realised, and then frowned again. Hadn't Striker told her that he'd died?

'Just give me a _second,' _said the Joker, and he sounded not at all perturbed by his impending capture. Bells heard a gun being cocked and she closed her eyes, feeling oddly sad that her escapade into crime was coming to an end.

'We got you, you son of a bitch,' came Gordon's triumphant voice. 'Where is Isabelle Richards?'

Bells jerked a little, surprised at hearing her name.

'Who? Oh you mean _Bells_. She's had a grand old time.'

'_Where is she?'_

_'_Someplace you'll _never_ get her back. She's mine, mine, _mine!' _the Joker's voice rose happily, and Bells realised he was referring to the state of her sanity. She huffed a little. She wasn't _that _far gone. But she winced when she heard the crack of a fist hitting a jaw, a small frown hovering on her forehead at the thought of the Joker being hurt by the _noble _Gotham police department.

_Bunch of dicks._

Bells realised that they must have knocked the Joker out as she heard the sound of someone being dragged across the ground, and then the slam of a car door. She sighed. Her head was hurting. Hopefully they'd just let her sleep this out on the ground, which was beginning to feel remarkably comfortable in much the same way as concrete shouldn't be. Sadly, her pain-riddled snooze was interrupted just moments later by a sharp prod in her side, right in the broken ribs. She yelped.

'You mother_fucker_! That bloody hurt!' she spat at the surprised SWAT guy who had prodded her with his boot. His eyes widened.

'Gordon! Gordon I got her!'

He knelt down next to her. 'It's alright Miss Richards, he's gone, you're okay now.'

He tried to lay a soothing hand on her forehead which Bells weakly pushed away. Booted feet stepped into her line of sight, and she looked up at an incredulous Gordon. He dropped down next to her.

'There's an ambulance just pulling up,' he said worriedly, and she nodded.

'Don't worry, the Joker will never get near you again,' he continued.

Hold on. That didn't seem right.

'What?' Bells asked, trying to push herself up on her elbows. Gordon pushed her down gently.

'The Joker,' he explained patiently. 'He's going away, and you'll go into witness protection.'

'No!' cried out Bells, 'Let me see him!'

'I'm afraid that isn't a good idea.'

'You can't keep him away!' she exclaimed angrily, but Gordon misunderstood her.

'Yes we can,' he said gently. 'You'll be very safe.'

'_I want to see him,_' Bells spat up at him. Lot of hands were pushing her down now, and she fought against them, raging and biting.

'LET ME GO!' she screamed, kicking up at the people around her. Her fingers brushed the gun holstered on her thigh, and she manically pulled it out and aimed at Gordon. She watched vindictively as his eyes widened.

'_You can't keep us apart_,' she growled, but suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her muscles rapidly felt weak, and without her realising the gun tumbled from her hands as her vision went blurry. She glared accusingly at Gordon and then at the paramedic who had stuck a _fucking needle _in her, but suddenly she couldn't hold herself up and her head dropped back onto the concrete and she closed her eyes and then there was nothing.

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**A/N: Review please!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Would you look at that, I actually updated! I have no excuse, except that I refuse to push out a chapter when I have writer's block, because that would mean it would be a crappy chapter. I hope by now none of you expect me to update regularly ;)  
****Enjoy! **

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14

Bells woke slowly. She didn't want to open her eyes just yet, because as soon as she did reality would come crashing down. No more Joker.

She could hear the faint drip of an IV, and the steady, irritating beeping of a heart monitor. Her wrist was throbbing with an intensity that almost matched the pain in her ribs, which she could feel were tightly bound in bandages. Bells went to lift a hand to touch them, but was hindered with the soft clink of a handcuff. She was bound to the bed. For a moment she couldn't remember why the hospital staff might have considered such a drastic measure necessary, but after a few groggy moments it all came rushing back to her. The feel of the gun in her grip, the metal warmed by her body-heat and clammy from the sweat of her hands. The harsh sting of a needle. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut before opening them with a sigh, blinking at the bright white light directly above her.

Bells craned her neck to the side, ignoring the corresponding twinge in her ribs. She couldn't see anybody in the room. _That's strange_, she thought, frowning at the white ceiling. _You'd think I'd be a high priority patient, considering I'm the Joker's… _What had Marko called her before she killed him with the gun? _Oh, that's right. I'm the Joker's whore. _

How ever empty her room may have been, the corridor behind the door was anything but. Bells could hear running footsteps pounding past her, accompanied by the squealing tires of hospital stretchers and the moaning of the patients presumably on them. Panicked voices filtered through, but Bells couldn't quite make out what they were saying. The whole thing had an air of mayhem and alarm, and here she was, handcuffed to a hospital bed.

'Hey!' she yelled, her voice cracking from disuse. Bells waited for a few seconds. Nothing. Well this was getting just a little bit ridiculous. If they were evacuating patients because of an unknown, probably fatal threat, shouldn't she be surrounding by bustling, well-intentioned nurses by now, getting her the hell out of here? Especially as she was the only one that could give the inside scoop on the Joker. Not the she ever would. She wasn't suicidal, after all.

'What the fuck,' Bells muttered, pulling on the handcuffs that tethered her to the bed. Didn't they usually only handcuff one hand? Clearly they'd gone all out after she tried to shoot Gordon. It was actually somewhat gratifying that they considered her a serious threat. At least she knew she hadn't undergone all of that training for nothing. To be fair, she wasn't going to actually shoot Gordon. Maybe just threaten him a little bit. She actually quite liked Gordon, in a mustachioed, grandfatherly sort of way.

Bells liked Gordon a hell of a lot more than she liked her current, increasingly untenable, position. She spent a few minutes throwing her arms around in anger, succeeding only in drawing rings of blood around her wrists and clattering the handcuffs back and forward on the rails. A sharp pain in the crease of her elbow told her that she'd also managed to pull out her IV. Bells watched as blood welled up and dripped down her arm and onto the floor. She slumped back onto the hard pillow, and thought that maybe she'd just sleep the whole situation out. Speaking of sleeping, just how long had she been unconscious?

Forgetting about her plan to snooze, she sat up, hissing as the handcuffs pulled at her bleeding wrists. On the wall hung an electronic calendar of sorts, displaying the date and the time.

'The sixteenth?' Bells said aloud in surprise. She'd been unconscious for around a week, apparently. She must have been drugged. Come to think of it, the only reason that she was awake now was probably because somebody had fucked up and forgotten to keep her comatose. Most likely because of the currently occurring ruckus.

Speaking of which…

It had grown quiet in the corridor outside her door. All of the patients must have been evacuated. Bells strained her ears, but couldn't hear anything except clear liquid dripping onto the linoleum floor from the morosely hanging IV line. Looking to her left, Bells could see a pen sitting on a low table next to the bed. If she could just reach it, she could snap the plastic casing and use it to pick the lock on the handcuffs. Unfortunately, the _goddamn _hospital staff had decided to break tradition and handcuff _both fucking wrists_. Bells let her head slump back down onto the pillow. The pain was becoming harder to ignore, just possibly because the IV that had been feeding her pain killers was no longer attached to her blood stream. She did feel more alert though. Alert enough to hear the slow but steady footsteps echoing down the hall, coming closer steadily to her. Bells's heart gave a little lurch. She knew those footsteps. _But how?_ she wondered. How had he escaped? Last she knew he was being bundled unconscious into the back of a police car. The footsteps stopped outside her door. Bells lay very still, her heart thudding in her chest.

The door creaked open. Bells shuffled herself into some semblance of a sitting position and turned to look at the doorway. A lopsided smile graced her cracked lips, one corner of her mouth higher than the other from the tough scar tissue that ornamented her cheek.

'Joker,' she smiled, forgetting the pain in her ribs and wrists. The Joker looked back at her and she stifled a giggle. He was in an unconvincing mockery of a nurse's uniform, his greasepaint applied underneath the surgical mask, wisps of orange curls poking out from under a white starched hat. His lean, stained fingers delicately pulled the mask down around his neck, and the Joker grinned at her.

'_Bells_,' he said. 'Fancy meeting _you _here.'

Bells grinned back at him.

'I suppose that you're the one behind all of the ruckus outside?' she asked, clinking her handcuffs at him to encourage him to get a move on and pick the locks. He sauntered over, pulling out a thin silver pick, spotted with rust. He leant over her left arm, fiddling with the lock.

'Who else would it be?' he replied, and the handcuff opened with a satisfying click. He leant over her to free her right hand, and Bells shivered as he trailed his bare fingers down her forearm.

She shrugged casually. 'Maybe some master criminal, showing Gotham that you aint nothin'?' She smirked up at him.

The Joker looked at her for a long second, pausing in his ministrations to her handcuff, and Bells suddenly thought that maybe the Joker didn't tolerate her bullshit as much as she'd thought he did. She tensed, but the metallic clinking resumed, and a second later her right hand sprung free.

'I _like_ that mouth you have on you, Bells,' he said to her, and she could hear chuckle bubbling in his throat. 'But you gotta _watch _yourself sometimes. Making a man feel inadequate, you are.'

'You know I'm only teasing,' she smiled up at him. 'You're the only criminal mastermind 'round here, and all of Gotham knows it.'

Bells leant up to peck him on the lips, but the Joker roughly grabbed her chin. She stilled, tensely wondering what she'd done wrong.

'You better be careful,' he said quietly, the grip on her jaw becoming bruising. 'You're fun to have around, but you're not _anything _more than some girl who happens to still be alive because of _my _generosity.'

Bells didn't say anything. She was deciphering the meaning behind his words. He didn't like the familiarity, she realised. He didn't like expectations unless he was the one having them. She had to be careful with this pseudo-relationship that was somehow going on.

The Joker let go of her jaw as she nodded.

'Well then!' he said brightly, his grim mood vanishing. 'I've got some business with our resident _bridesmaid_.'

Bells thought back, assuming correctly that the Joker definitely wasn't in the mood to be married any time soon. Her previous conversation with him came back to her. 'Dent?' she asked. 'Is he here?'

'I _put _him here. Looking all pretty with a new face too. Miss Dawes, however…' the Joker trailed off, the glint in his eye that told her he'd perpetrated a murder.

'She's dead?' Bells frowned.

'You could say she had a _hot date_,' the Joker laughed. Bells didn't laugh with him. In a fleeting and semi-successful attempt of self-psychoanalysis, she tried to figure out how she felt about this particular piece of news. She hadn't known Rachel, but had been subconsciously classing her as some sort of kindred spirit, due to their both being the only females (as far as she knew) targeted by the Joker. Bells felt oddly alone at the news that she was dead, despite never even being introduced to the Assistant District Attorney.

'Well…' she murmured, the Joker watching her inquisitively to gauge her reaction. 'How about that,' she finally decided on, assuming that a neutral response wouldn't get her into any trouble. The Joker cocked his head to the side in the disarmingly endearing but dangerous way he had, but didn't seem to find any issue with her response. Deciding that it was time for her to be up and about, Bells swung her legs off the side of the bed, stood up, and stumbled straight into the wall.

'Balance is a little off,' she mumbled as the Joker laughed. It was only once she stood that she realised that she could feel a breeziness in areas where a breeze had no right to be. They'd stuck her in a hospital gown. Bells frowned angrily, and cast around for her clothes, perhaps conveniently folded on a chair. No dice.

She looked towards the Joker, who appeared to be amused by her predicament. He spread his arms, as if to say 'You think _I _have them?' and then began tapping his fingers impatiently on his thigh. Recognising the warning sign, Bells decided clothes would be an issue for later.

'So what's the plan?' she asked.

'Get to Dent, blow it up,' the Joker replied.

Deciding that she would leave the issue of 'blowing it up' alone for the time being, Bells nodded and headed towards the door, opening it and peering out into the hallway.

'All clear,' she said back over her shoulder, and stepped into the empty corridor. It was littered with abandoned sheaths of paper and various hospital things. She could see a stethoscope hanging oddly over an open door, as if a harried doctor had simply thrown it over their shoulder as they ran.

'Do you know where Dent's room is?' she asked as the Joker stepped into the corridor.

'Wouldn't be much of a plan if I didn't,' he replied, and without looking at her he strode off down the hall. Having not seen his bare legs before, Bells allowed herself a moment to look at them as she walked behind him. They were skinny but lean, and she found it oddly intimate to be seeing them. Still uncomfortably aware that she was naked under a thin hospital gown, she decided to distract herself with idle chitchat.

'So what've you been up to while I've been in an induced coma?' Bells asked brightly, peering into doorways as she passed them. All of the rooms were empty.

'Oh, this, that,' replied the Joker airily, walking with the air of a man dressed as a female nurse who hadn't a care in the world. 'I burnt my cut of the Chechen's money.'

Bells faltered mid-step. 'And what did you do to the Chechen?'

'Found out just how disloyal to him his dogs are.'

Bells found that she didn't particularly want to have any more details than that – the visual was already bad enough.

Finally, they reached Dent's room. There were no guards posted outside, something which Bells found very odd. However, as she paused outside the door, both she and the Joker heard hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway. Fluidly, the Joker pulled it open and pushed her inside. Bells was about to speak when he shunted her against the wall next to the door, pulling a silenced pistol from God knows where. The footsteps stopped, and a policemen walked nervously into the room, the door swinging around to hide Bells from view. He looked at the Joker, who was facing the dazed and slowly coming around Dent.

'Ma'am, we're going to have to move him now,' the cop said nervously, fingering his walkie-talkie.

Without fanfare, the Joker turned fluidly and shot him in the chest. Bells let out a tiny squeak at the rapidity of it – she had been expecting a little showmanship – as the body toppled down to land at her bare feet with a thud.

The Joker stepped closer to Dent, who was looking much more awake. Bells winced as she saw the full extent of what the Joker had done to him. Half of his face was completely burnt, the flesh raw and red and angry. His eye swivelled madly in its socket, the blue of his iris startlingly bright in contrast with the exposed muscles. His cheekbone could be clearly seen, straining against the taut sinew of his cheek, and without lips his jaw and teeth contorted his expression into a permanent angry grimace. He looked insane, something not helped in the way he pulled compulsively at the restraints around his wrists. Bells couldn't help but feel empathy for the ruined man in front of her. Her mind was flashing back to the bashful man at the Wayne fundraiser who was uncomfortable with being the centre of attention. She also felt a certain sense of comradery with Dent. They had both been moulded into something new by the Joker.

Bells stepped forward to the side of the hospital bed, watching Dent and the Joker interestedly. Dent looked towards her as she stepped into his line of sight, the maimed eye and the whole piercing her before he looked back at the Joker.

'I don't want there to be any hard feelings between us, Harvey,' the Joker said almost gently as he leant over and loosened Dent's restraints. 'When you and Rachel were being abducted _I_ was sitting in Gordon's cage. I didn't rig those charges - '

'Your men,' Dent interrupted gruffly. 'Your plan.'

The Joker eyed him, a slight shake to his shoulders as he held in laughter.

'Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?' he asked. The Joker turned to Bells. 'Huh? Do I?'

'Not in the least,' Bells replied, grinning back at him.

The Joker turned back to Dent. 'Well there you go. I don't have a plan… The mob has plans, the _cops _have plans. You know what I am Harvey?'

Dent didn't reply, meeting the Joker's gaze. Bells saw his hands trembling.

'I'm a dog chasing cars… I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it.' The Joker's vice was rising hysterically. 'I just _do _things. I'm just the wrench in the gears. I _hate _plans. Yours, theirs, everyone's. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans. _Schemers_ trying to control their worlds. I'm not a schemer, I show the schemers how _pathetic _their attempts to control things really are. So when I say that you and your girlfriend were nothing personal, you _know _I'm telling the truth.'

Bells held her breath as the Joker paused, looking over at Dent, who appeared to be shaking with uncontrolled rage. His good eye had closed into a slit, and she could see the exposed muscles attempting to do the same on his lidless eye. The Joker looked at her, and winked, before gently handing the pistol to Dent. Bells couldn't stop her sharp intake of breath as Harvey confusedly looked down at the silenced gun and then to the Joker, obviously fearing some sort of trick. Slowly, Dent raised the gun at the Joker, who leant forward and pulled the gun against his temple.

Bells stared, panicking. What would she do if the Joker died? However, her panic ebbed as she amusedly realised that the Joker's thumb was firmly pressed on the hammer of the pistol – there was no way the Dent would be able to fire a shot. She held in a grin at how seriously Dent was taking this, when he didn't even have a chance.

'It's the schemers who put you where you are,' the Joker intoned seriously. 'You were a schemer. You had plans. _Look _where that got you.'

Dent was staring up at the Joker, a sort of horrified fascination crossing his maimed face. Bells gripped the rails of the hospital bed, entranced by the master manipulation that was occurring. The Joker may be called many things, but one thing he was not was stupid. He could understand the inner recesses of the subconscious, and knew which mentalities to tweak just slightly to bring a thought to the front, somehow making it seem as though the manipulated had thought of it all by themselves. Yes. The Joker may be a sociopathic murderer, but he was also frighteningly intelligent with a master understanding of the psyche. Bells couldn't help but be in awe of him and his subtle manipulations.

'I just did what I do best,' the Joker continued softly, staring down at Dent. 'I took your plan, and I turned it on itself. Look what I've _done_ to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.'

Dent twitched, and his finger jerked on the trigger of the pistol. The Joker let out a slight chuckle.

'Nobody panics when the _expected_ people get killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is _horrifying_.'

He adjusted his grip on the pistol, the shaking in his shoulders indicating to Bells that he was getting more and more excited. The was a hysterical tilt to his voice, which was rising in pitch with every sentence.

He continued, 'If I tell the press that tomorrow a _gangbanger _will get shot, or a truckload of _soldiers_ gets blown up, nobody panics. Because it's _all part of the plan_.'

The Joker's hands were shaking in earnest now, and Bells could see a blossom of colour under the messy white greasepaint on his cheeks.

'But when I say that _one little old mayor _will die - ' The Joker's voice was rising in earnest now, and his words were shaking slightly '- everybody loses their minds!'

He paused, appearing to calm himself, and his grip on the pistol seemed to slacken slightly. Dent was still staring up at him, apparently mesmerized, and his fingers were loosening and tightening convulsively on the trigger. Bells stood stock still, ignoring the blaring sirens that were filtering through the window.

'Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos. I'm an agent of chaos. And you know the thing about chaos, Harvey?' the Joker asked quietly, staring down at Dent. 'It's fair.'

Dent looked up at the Joker, neither glaring nor calm. He just looked. Finally, he looked down at something in his hand. Bells followed his gaze and saw a large coin, the side facing up blackened by soot. Dent held up the good side to the Joker.

'You live,' he growled. He turned the coin to the other face. 'You die.'

The Joker looked down at him, almost admiringly. '_Now _you're talking.'

Bells held her breath for dramatic effect, knowing the whichever side landed face up, it wouldn't make a difference. The Joker's thumb was still firmly pressed on the hammer, hidden from Dent's line of side by the barrel of the pistol.

Dent flipped the coin up into the air with his good hand. The coin flashed as it spun, a black and silver blur as the two faces flipped, until the coin fell back into Dent's outstretched hand. His fingers closed over it, and slapped it onto the table beside the bed. He lifted his hand.

'You live,' said Dent quietly, a shadow of something unidentifiable passing over his face. Bells's hands unclenched from the rail, blood returning to her white fingers.

The Joker closed his eyes briefly, as if relieved by the outcome. Slowly, he extracted the pistol from Dent's hand.

'I hope to see you around, Harvey. You're one hell of a guy,' the Joker told him seriously, before turning to Bells. 'Come on Bells. We've got a bus to catch.'

She nodded, moving away from the hospital bed and towards the door. She paused as she heard the Joker speak again.

'Oh, and Harvey? I'd make a move, and quickly, if I was you.'

Bells turned in time to see Dent nod towards the Joker, before the Joker steered her out of the room. They made their way down the hallway, the Joker only pausing to pull something black and box-like out of a cupboard. He pushed her on ahead.

'Get to the bus,' he muttered.

'Which bus?' she asked, turning around to him, but he pushed her forward.

'Find Slim.'

Bells nodded, a rushed forward. She reached to doors, which slid open with a calm _swoosh _that seemed out of place in the situation. Striding forward, she realised that she blended in perfectly. People in hospital gowns were milling in panicked circles, arranged around the strangely out-of-place school-buses that were parked haphazardly in the car park. Wondering how on earth she was going to be able to find Slim in all of this, she walked towards the nearest bus, intending to look in the driver's seat of all of them until she found him. She was halfway to the bus when she heard someone frantically calling her name. Looking stupid as she spun in a circle, she finally locating Slim leaning out the window of the bus closest to the hospital. Smiling in relief, she sauntered over, picking her way through policemen and doctors who appeared to have better things to do than to figure out that a kidnap victim wanted by the police was calmly walking through their midst.

Reaching the bus, she vaulted up the step, ignoring the ache in her ribs that had been getting steadily worse as the day progressed. Glancing back, she started as she realised that the bus was full of civilians, Mike Engel even sitting up the front with his hands clasped nervously on his lap.

'How was Dent?' Slim grunted, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

'Not the same man he once was,' Bells grinned, settling herself into the passenger seat. However, just as she had gotten herself comfortable, making sure that she wasn't flashing anyone, a shockwave rocked the bus followed by a resounding _boom_. The passengers screamed as Bells spun around to look out the window. The hospital was collapsing in on itself, walls crumbling with billows of smoke and dust. Even as a second explosion tore through the air, she could see fires starting in the rubble. It was a cacophony of screams and explosions, all conducted by the Joker.

Bells smiled to herself as she realised that he had kept his word and waited until the hospital had evacuated before blowing it up. It must have been the switch that he'd pulled out of the cupboard. She wondered where Dent had got to.

Her musings were interrupted by a scream right next to her ear, and with annoyance she realised that Engel had stood up and was leaning over her shoulder to shout at Slim.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he screamed, and Bells winced as his voice cracked up an octave. 'Drive, you idiot! Let's get out of here!'

Bells turned to him. 'Shut the _fuck _up you smarmy twat!' she growled.

His eyes widened as he realised who it was, and he pulled away slightly. 'But… but you're Isabelle Richards!'

'No, that's Bells,' came a voice from behind him. Engel gulped, paling rapidly before slowly turning around with the air of a man who knew his time was limited. The Joker was silhouetted in the doorway of the bus, a harrowing figure that was slightly ruined by the fact that he was wearing a nurse's uniform. Engel, however, shrank in fear even as Bells held back a giggle. She winced as there were several more screams from the bus as the passengers clued on to the fact that it wasn't a friendly nurse who'd just stepped into the bus, but basically the complete opposite. The Joker grinned at the effect he had made, and sauntered over to rest his hand on her shoulder, his fingers gripping her tightly. He turned to the passengers, whose screams had subsided to the occasional whimper and gasping sob.

'Looks like you folks hopped on to the wrong bus,' he said, chuckling slightly. 'And Mike,' he continued, turning to Engel, 'We're going to have some fun with you and that camera of yours.'

Despite Bells not thinking it was at all possible, Engel paled even further. His face now had the unhealthy pallor of a man who had spent several years locked in a windowless room. His right eye twitched slightly and his mouth opened in a soundless whimper.

Bells grinned at him. She felt a slight personal grudge against Engel, seeing as it was him who had been broadcasting the details of her original abduction in every morning and nightly news slot. It hadn't made walking down the street very easy.

Bells was pulled out of her thoughts by the bus's engine roaring into gear, and she was thrown into the Joker as Slim haphazardly reversed out of the car park, swinging onto the road and switching into gear with, clearly, no thought for the comfort of the passengers as they were thrown around. Bells somehow ended on the Joker's lap, her bare thighs on the crisp white skirt of the nurse's uniform. The Joker looked down at her, his face unreadable.

'I'm glad you're not dead,' she said quietly. 'Or in prison.'

The Joker grinned slightly.

'I feel the same way about me, too,' he said, and she frowned at him for not taking her seriously. The next moment, however, she stopped caring, because the Joker had turned his attention to her neck, biting and sucking on her pulse points. Bells flexed her hands as tendrils of fire shot down, and she couldn't help but let out a little moan.

There was a shocked gasp from behind her. Bells ignored it.

'Whore,' a man said quietly, not thinking that she could hear him.

The Joker paused, pulling away from her to see what she'd do. Bells stilled, and her hands closed into fists.

'Excuse me?' she asked, slowly turning around in the Joker's lap. Engel's cameraman flushed, meeting her gaze.

'You heard me,' he said defiantly, raising his voice slightly over the rumble of the engine. At the wheel, Slim stiffened, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

Bells felt cold. They didn't _understand_. _Nobody _could understand her, or the Joker. She didn't need to take this. She knew it was only the first comment of many to come, but a sense of righteous rage overtook her. How could they _possibly _judge her, they who didn't even know what she'd been through? Wordlessly, she held her hand out to the Joker, waiting, not taking her eyes off of the quickly reddening man's face. She felt the cool handle of a throwing knife settle into her palm, and the brush of the Joker's calloused fingers. Breaking the cameraman's gaze, she looked down at the knife, which fit nicely in her scarred fingers. She narrowed her eyes. In a fluid motion that had been drilled into her, she pulled her hand back even as she swivelled in her seat, and twisted the knife in her fingers as she threw it. It connected with a solid _thunk _in the shoulder of the cameraman, who let out a strangled cry as he scrabbled at the hilt, his fingers quickly becoming slick with blood. A red stain bloomed on his white shirt.

Bells watched him, her head tilted to the side. She looked up at the Joker, who watched her with amusement.

'I was aiming for his head,' she frowned at him, ignoring the yells that were emanating behind her. 'I was too angry. It threw off my aim.'

The Joker grinned down at her, the greasepaint worn and sunken into his scarred cheeks. 'You really know how to grow on a guy,' he chucked, pulling her closer to him.

Bells felt cold, and it was nothing to do with the thin hospital gown she was wearing. It wasn't like she'd killed the guy, even though she meant to. The words 'Stockholm' and 'conditioning' filtered briefly through her mind before she was distracted by a pair of lips on her own.

It was fine. She was fine.

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**A/N: I welcome constructive criticism! I really do. Let me know what you think, reviews make me feel bad about not updating regularly. It you're a firs time reader, chuck this story a follow! :)**


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